The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte

by Chatlien, Ruth Hull

  The unsavory situation reawakened Betsy’s fears that her son might develop the same debauched nature as Jerome. How could she teach him the need for honor when his grandfather acted so disgracefully? Ashamed that she had let Bo stay with such an unsuitable guardian for so long, Betsy said good-bye to her friends and sailed for America.

  Now, pacing the deck, she fumed over her father’s hypocrisy. For two years, she had lived amid the sexual license of Parisian society without a single stain on her reputation, yet her lecherous father continued to berate her for impropriety. He of all people had no right to complain of anything in her character. Patterson was sixty-four years old while Providence was only twenty-seven, five years younger than Betsy herself!

  His was not the only family scandal. Since coming to Europe, Marianne had become the Duke of Wellington’s favorite, and all of fashionable society believed them to be lovers. Adding zest to the rumors was the fact that Wellington and Marianne had exchanged portraits. Robert maintained that the mutual admiration was innocent, but Betsy did not believe it. She knew Wellington’s reputation with women and doubted he would spend months dancing attendance on a virtuous Marianne. Furious that her brother was being cuckolded, Betsy urged him to separate his wife from her lover. Robert, however, grew offended by her meddling, so Betsy washed her hands of the affair, congratulating herself that she had never been taken in by Marianne’s angelic demeanor.

  It still enraged Betsy that, with such disgraceful goings-on, her father should label her insane because she preferred living in Europe. She suspected that his anger had a much different cause. In every aspect of her life, Betsy defied his most cherished beliefs about women. She was succeeding in a man’s sphere, managing money and property on her own. Patterson refused to see that her abilities were the equal of any man’s, and Betsy had worn herself out trying to persuade him that she was not so much disobedient as determined to find a manner of life in which she could exercise her talents. He simply would not admit that women had any function other than bearing a dozen children and running the house, the very roles that were anathema to Betsy. She wondered if they would ever bridge the chasm between them.

  BECAUSE HER HOUSE was rented to a tenant, Betsy went to South Street when she arrived in Baltimore. Edward was married to their cousin Sydney Smith now, and Henry had moved south temporarily for his health, so the house held only her father, George, and the servants. Even so, Patterson declared that he no longer wished to deal with the “confusion” that attended Betsy’s stays. He offered to let her and Bo occupy one of his rental properties.

  Betsy’s first priority before moving to the new house was to be reunited with her son. The day after her return, she wrote Dr. DuBois asking permission to visit Bo at St. Mary’s. After receiving an affirmative reply, she hired a carriage, traveled to Emmitsburg, and presented herself in Dr. DuBois’s office the next morning. The office had dark, austere furnishings, but above the fireplace hung an Italian oil painting of a golden-haired Virgin Mary, and behind the headmaster’s desk hung an elaborately carved crucifix showing Christ in writhing agony.

  Dr. DuBois had thin, greying hair, which he wore short and parted in the middle; the two curves of his hairline mirrored perfectly arched eyebrows. His expression was serene, and he habitually folded his hands over his ample stomach. “Jerome is doing well. He is the top student in his English class, he has progressed to the most advanced level of French, and he shows an exceptional aptitude for mathematics.”

  “I am grateful to hear that he has applied himself. Does he know that I am here?”

  “No.” DuBois pursed his lips, and Betsy read in his face that he had not been certain she would keep her word. “I thought it best not to distract Jerome from his work by telling him of your visit beforehand. I will send someone for him.”

  He stepped out to the antechamber where a young priest worked as his secretary. A moment later, DuBois returned. “Jerome is in Latin class but will be here shortly.”

  “Thank you.” Too agitated to remain seated, Betsy went to the window, hoping to see her son cross the lawn on his way from another building. It felt odd to be back in Maryland with its spread-out towns, rolling hills, and unkempt forests. Even though only two years had passed, she had grown so accustomed to the crooked, tightly packed streets of Paris that her native state seemed alien.

  After a few minutes, the door opened and she turned to see an older, brown-haired student enter. “You sent for me, sir?” Betsy realized then that this big boy was her son.

  “You have a visitor,” Dr. DuBois said with a smile, gesturing in her direction.

  “Mama?” Visibly stunned, Bo remained where he was, and Betsy ran her gaze over him eagerly. He had grown several inches taller than she was, and his face was developing the prominent chin of the Bonapartes, but the hazel eyes were still those of her baby.

  When he continued to hang back, Betsy said, “You have grown so tall. Are you too great a personage now to come hug your mother?”

  He came, and Betsy clasped him tightly, trying to fathom that this husky fellow was her boy, but Bo pulled away too quickly for her to accustom herself to the new feeling of him.

  Dr. DuBois said, “Jerome, please show your mother into the visitor’s parlor.”

  “Don’t I have to return to class, sir?”

  “Not today.”

  Bo led his mother through the antechamber across a central hall and into a small parlor. Because it was used to entertain families, this room had more frills than the headmaster’s office. Betsy took a seat on a gold-striped sofa and patted the cushion next to her, but Bo took the maroon wingback armchair on the other side of the patterned rug.

  Betsy sighed. “Are you angry with me, Bo?”

  He glanced up, startled by her directness. “No.”

  “Darling, I know I promised to come home after a year, but I wrote and explained that my health made it impossible.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why are you upset with me?”

  “I am not,” Bo said, but he scowled and would not meet her eyes.

  Betsy folded her arms. “I am still your mother, and I can tell when you are angry.”

  He jumped up and went to stand by the fireplace. Keeping his back to her, he repositioned a marble figurine of the Virgin Mary. “Were you really ill, Mama? Your letters were full of stories about parties, and Grandfather says that people who are truly sick do not have the strength to chase after amusement.”

  “So has your grandfather become a physician in my absence?”

  Bo faced her with a frown.

  Betsy said, “It is true that I was not sick every minute, nor did I spend every waking hour confined to bed. But I was prey to debilitating attacks the like of which I hope you never experience. They would come without warning and leave me prostrate for days. I can show you written opinions by the doctors who attended me if you require proof.”

  The resentment in Bo’s face softened. “Please, Mama,” he said, but Betsy had not finished.

  “I swear to you that the physical suffering I endured, although considerable, was nothing compared to the agony of missing you. If I only had sufficient income to have you with me, I would have sailed home to fetch you no matter what the physicians said.”

  “But Mama, I don’t want to live in Paris.”

  “You cannot know that. You have never been to Europe, so how can you be certain that the United States is better? European culture is much older and more sophisticated than ours.”

  He thrust out his chin in a gesture that reminded her of Jerome. “Grandfather says it is a sign of a disordered mind not to be content in one’s own country.”

  “Then why did he come here to make his fortune instead of remaining in Ireland where he was born?”

  Bo’s mouth dropped open.

  “Once and for all, Bo, your grandfather is not qualified to make medical diagnoses, nor is he fit to judge my morals. There are many things about his character you don’t know.”r />
  He slumped into his chair. “I know about Matilda.”

  “Indeed. And still you look to your grandfather as the arbiter of my behavior, even after learning what a hypocrite he is.”

  His head shot up. “He is lonely, Mama. He has been ever since Mother died.”

  “Really, Bo, I suggest that if you are going to take it upon yourself to judge your elders, then you should not be so naïve. Your grandfather has bedded every housekeeper to come into our employ since I was a girl.”

  When her son shook his head, Betsy drove the point home. “If you do not believe me—since plainly your grandfather has convinced you that I am a liar—then look to your own memories. What do you think he was doing the time you found him ‘rubbing’ Mrs. Todd?”

  Bo’s expression crumpled into that of a hurt little boy, and he stared at the flowering-vine-patterned rug. Betsy waited a full minute, but he said nothing.

  In a gentler tone, she said, “I did not want to tell you these things, but I cannot allow him to turn you against me. As I have told you many times, you are my son, not his.”

  When Bo lifted his head, Betsy saw moisture glistening on his lower lashes, but instead of giving way to tears, he said, “I missed you so much when you did not come home. I know you have given up a great deal for me, and I thought you must be tired of the sacrifice.”

  “How could you think such a thing?” Betsy crossed the room, knelt before him, and smoothed back the lock of hair that hung upon his forehead. “You are everything in the world to me. I confess that I enjoyed life in Paris, but would you be happier if I had been miserable? I never for an instant stopped wishing you were with me. I love you so entirely that I would gladly sacrifice anything for you. Don’t you know that?”

  Bo bent down to hug her, and his tears dripped onto her neck. “Mama, forgive me. I am so glad that you have come home. I will live anywhere you want. I will do whatever you want. Please don’t leave me again.”

  Stroking his hair, Betsy murmured, “Dearest boy, I promise that nothing will ever again separate us.”

  RESIGNING HERSELF TO at least a year’s stay in Baltimore, Betsy met with Aunt Nancy to review her finances. One piece of good news was learning that her father had paid Bo’s tuition while she was gone and did not want her to reimburse him. Betsy was grateful for her father’s unexpected generosity because she would need every dollar to realize her dream of educating Bo in Geneva.

  She had come home to find the U.S. economy in a perilous state. The cost of the war had raised federal debt and triggered inflation. Yet the charter for the Bank of the United States had been allowed to expire, so the country had no central institution to manage its economic problems. State-chartered banks issued competing paper currencies, and some issued too many notes, which drove down their value and sent prices still higher. The knowledge that, even though she had not touched her principal, it had lost value during her absence made Betsy once again feel the victim of forces beyond her control.

  In normal times, customers could exchange paper money for gold, the standard of value on which the system was based. However, federal borrowing to finance the war depleted the gold reserves, so that practice had stopped. It became impossible to be certain what currency was worth, and inflation galloped unchecked. In 1816, Congress chartered a Second Bank of the United States to regulate state banks, but by the time Betsy returned in November 1817, everyone knew that the national bank was poorly managed and nearly insolvent.

  Even so, parts of the economy were booming. During the war, manufacturing gained a foothold in the United States because of the blockade, and industry continued to expand after war’s end. To capitalize on that, Betsy’s brothers Edward and Joseph had started an iron mill just outside Baltimore.

  In addition, demand for American crops soared because the Napoleonic wars had disrupted European farming. Speculators bought up agricultural land, including vast tracts in the Louisiana Territory, causing land prices to double and triple. Banks eagerly loaned the money for such purchases without considering whether the spiraling values would hold once Europe’s fields began to produce again.

  Gallatin had warned Betsy of the dangerous trends he saw in the economy and advised her on how to protect herself. She spent months re-evaluating her accounts, reinvesting bonds as they matured, and deciding whether to keep each of the stocks she owned. Above all, she avoided the temptation to indulge in risky speculation.

  Throughout 1818, she lived quietly and did not even visit Washington. James and Dolley Madison had retired to Virginia after his presidency ended, and Betsy found that her friend’s absence diminished her interest in the capital’s social life. By remaining at home in the house her father provided rent free—embroidering, writing to European friends, and reading literature such as Byron’s poetry—she kept expenses to a minimum and managed to build up her savings. Her happiest hours came when Bo was on holiday from school. She regaled him with stories of Paris and gave him lessons in etiquette and deportment.

  “Mama, I feel silly doing this,” he complained one afternoon when she made him redo a bow that he had failed to execute with the exact degree of nicety she required.

  “Fudge! You will feel far sillier if a beautiful princess refuses your request to dance because you bowed like a clodhopper.”

  Placing his hands on his hips, Bo stared at her in exasperation. “Why would a princess dance with me? I am just an ordinary American boy.”

  “You are not. Your uncle was the emperor, and your father was a king.”

  “But the Bonapartes are no longer in power.”

  “Even so, they are regarded as princes.” Betsy crossed to stand directly before him even though she had to tilt her head to look into his face. “Unfortunately, your father far outspends his income and shows no sign of doing anything for you, so your future will have to depend on your own exertions. You must work hard to achieve distinction, and you must learn how to get along in fashionable society. I intend for you to have a brilliant career in diplomacy or government and one day to make a noble marriage.”

  He scowled. “What if I meet a girl I like here?”

  Determined to crush this defiance before it could take root, Betsy wagged her finger just below his nostrils. “Jerome Napoleon Bonaparte, listen to me and listen well. You have the charge of a great name and must never consider a match that is beneath you. Only in America are people still so foolish as to think love in a cottage a romantic notion. I am sure many an American girl will set her snares for you, so you must stay on guard. What will a hasty match produce but a large brood of children you cannot support? Men in Europe have sense enough not to marry a girl unless she brings a fortune. In your case, she must also equal your rank.”

  “Mama, that is where I beg to differ. The emperor never gave us titles so I have no rank to match. Why can we not be happy as we are?”

  He bent down to give Betsy an exaggerated arched-eyebrow, wide-mouthed look, but she refused to be charmed by his antics. “Because you were born for something better, and the Bonapartes deprived you of your birthright. That is the reason I endure so much trouble and anxiety on your behalf, to win back what should be yours by rights.”

  Bo sighed and turned away. “All right, Mama. I will do whatever you say.”

  IN EARLY 1819, the economy ground to a halt, and the United States went into its first national depression. Uncle Smith was one victim of the downturn; his business partner James Buchanan, who was charged with running the firm while Smith served in Congress, had committed fraud to buy risky stocks, and when prices dropped, the firm of Smith & Buchanan went bankrupt. Uncle Smith was cleared of wrongdoing, but he was a ruined man.

  In contrast, Betsy remained financially stable because of her cautious approach. During the year leading up the depression, she had managed to increase her principal and, consequently, her income. When the economic crisis occurred, the advice from Gallatin enabled her to keep her money safe. Thus it was possible, in the summer of 1819, for Betsy
and Bo to sail to the Netherlands. Betsy’s passport was in her maiden name, while Bo’s read Edward Patterson because his uncle had obtained it for him. Once they disembarked in Amsterdam, they traveled to the French Embassy in The Hague to obtain permission to cross France on the way to Switzerland.

  The ambassador, Le Comte du Gouvernet, stared at fourteen-year-old Bo, looked at their passports a second time, and frowned at Betsy. “Madame Patterson, I believe we have a mutual acquaintance in Talleyrand.”

  Betsy inclined her head. “Yes, Monsieur le Comte.”

  “Then am I correct in thinking that you once had a—union with Jerome Bonaparte?”

  “I was his American wife,” she said, drawing herself up and giving the man her most imperious stare.

  “Then this young man is his son.”

  “Yes, sir. He is traveling under the name Patterson because the French government has never recognized our right to the Bonaparte name.”

  The minister handed back their passports. “I am sorry, Madame, but you cannot enter France. You will have to travel through Germany to reach your destination.”

  “I do not understand. I was in France two years ago and encountered no difficulties.”

  “You are not the problem, Madame. Your son bears such a strong resemblance to Napoleon Bonaparte that I cannot permit him to cross the border. His presence might incite demonstrations.”

  Betsy saw Bo’s eyes grow wide, but he knew enough not to speak, which pleased her. Turning back to Le Comte du Gouvernet, she said, “He is just a boy.”

  “A boy who is sufficiently close to manhood that certain parties may wish to use him to achieve their own ends.”

  “Then there are factions that still favor the former emperor.”

  “Unfortunately yes, Madame.”