The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte (10 page)

The more Betsy worked on the pocketbook, the more eager she became to complete it. However, she was afraid that her brother would confiscate the project if he discovered she was making it for Jerome, so she worked on it only in the daytime when estate business kept John from the house. After several days at Mount Warren, Betsy learned that John was supping at the tavern, so she decided to use the opportunity to embroider that evening.

After supper, Betsy chose a chair close to the center of the drawing room where the lamps were lit. Mrs. Nicholas and Polly sat on the midnight blue cabriole sofa sewing, and a younger daughter, Charlotte, practiced minuets on the pianoforte. The women worked in silence for more than an hour. Then Polly asked, “Betsy, what are you making?”

“A man’s pocketbook.”

“I have never seen anything like it.”

“It will fold like this, do you see?” Betsy turned the two ends to the inside and folded it in half again to wallet shape to hide the inner edge where she had embroidered Jerome’s name. Then she held it up so that Polly could see the outer stitched design.

“How clever.” Before Betsy could object, Polly took the pocketbook from her. She examined the embroidery and then unfolded the fabric. Shock registered on her face. “Betsy, why have you marked this with Lieutenant Bonaparte’s name?”

“Because I hope to give it to him one day.”

Mrs. Nicholas put down the boy’s shirt she was mending. “Elizabeth, have you been in contact with him since you arrived?”

“No, ma’am, but I find it impossible to believe I will never see him again. I feel certain that our lives are destined to be joined together.”

The sound of clapping came from the doorway, and they turned to see John enter. Charlotte’s playing ceased. John walked with deliberate care to a sack-back Windsor chair that faced the sofa and sat heavily upon it. “Spoken like the sister I remember from childhood,” he said and belched. Betsy, who sat nearest to him, could smell whiskey.

“Mother Nicholas, did you know that when Betsy was ten, she claimed that a prophecy had foretold she would marry a European prince? It was a curious thing to grow up with a younger sister who thought herself my superior and even more curious that our parents rarely troubled to curb her airs. They were proud to have her known as the ‘Belle of Baltimore.’ No doubt we landed in this predicament because the family was flattered by Bonaparte’s attentions. It goes without saying that Betsy thought them only her due.” He laughed nastily. “What a comeuppance it must be, sister, to learn that you are not so irresistible as you had supposed.”

“John, you have not met Lieutenant Bonaparte, so I hardly think you qualified to judge his regard for me. Particularly not when you are the worse for drink.”

Stretching out his legs before him, John laughed again. “Oh, I still have enough wits about me to know that you will never see your Jerome again. He saw that your ambition made you an easy victim for his schemes.”

Betsy rose with as much dignity as her tiny frame could convey. “Whiskey has made you insufferable.”

John lifted his head and squinted at her. “What is insufferable is your ingratitude toward the family that attempts to save you from folly. They should let you learn for yourself what happens to women who cannot govern their passions.”

Polly gasped, and Mrs. Nicholas exclaimed, “John, you go too far!”

“Sorry, Mother Nicholas.” He passed his hand over his eyes. “Perhaps I have had a drop too much. If you will excuse me, I shall retire.”

As he walked unsteadily from the room, Betsy remained standing by her chair. She had no desire to remain with these women, but she feared to encounter John on the stairs.

“Please, dear, do not take his words to heart. John sometimes worries that he lives in the shadow of your brothers, which causes him to imagine slights that do not exist.”

Betsy looked at Mrs. Nicholas with raised eyebrows. “You, no doubt, understand my brother better than his own family does.”

“Perhaps I do. He is a dear young man who simply wants more confidence.”

“He will not find it in a bottle.”

“No, but he may gain it from being shown patience and loving-kindness.”

Folding her arms below her bosom, Betsy said, “How tolerant of you. I find it passing strange that when I declare Lieutenant Bonaparte to be deserving of patience and loving-kindness, my family calls me obstinate. I know that he has faults, but I love him as deeply as you and Polly love my brother, and since no one else will advocate for Bonaparte, I must.”

Betsy took the pocketbook from Polly and stowed it in her workbasket, which she carried with her as she went upstairs.

THE NEXT MORNING when Betsy entered the breakfast room where the family was assembled, John had the grace to look shamefaced. “Forgive me. I understand that I was rude last night.”

Betsy did not believe he had forgotten their conversation. “You most certainly were, but I am willing to overlook it this once for the sake of family harmony.”

As she took her seat, John handed her a letter. Betsy turned the folded-up paper over so she could break the seal, only to discover that it was open.

“You read it?”

He turned red. “Under Father’s orders.”

“This is intolerable.” She pushed back from the table and ran from the room.

Once she reached the privacy of her bedroom, she read the letter, which was from Henriette. It reported that the Reubells had seen Jerome, who swore that the anonymous letter was full of falsehood.

Bonaparte informed us that when he attempted to see your father, he was peremptorily turned away. He is quite in a lather and declared his intention to travel to New York to prove his love for you. Reubell and I are at a loss to know what he means.

Stricken, Betsy allowed the page to flutter to the bed as she gazed out her window.
New York? Why had Jerome gone to New York?

Although Betsy had never been there, Robert had described it to her. It was the largest city in the United States, more than twice the size of Baltimore and easily five times more cosmopolitan. Jerome would find every possible luxury there, a dizzying variety of entertainments, and more than enough beautiful women to make him forget Betsy. How could traveling to New York advance their cause? As far as she could see, all it did was make it impossible for her to run away to him.

Betsy snatched up Henriette’s letter, reread it, and took comfort in the description of Jerome’s agitation. She felt grateful to her friend for her tact in not sending a direct message from Jerome, which would have caused the letter to be kept from Betsy. Instead, Henriette provided just enough information to show that he had not given up but rather was acting out a plan. What that plan might be, Betsy could not imagine, but she would try to trust him.

DESPITE HER INTENTION to remain resolute, Betsy’s hope faded. The stomach pain she had experienced during their prior separation returned, and her appetite failed. In the evenings, she reread the letters she had received while Jerome was traveling with Barney and tried to reassure herself that he would never forget her. However, whenever she sat still, whether reading or sewing, she imagined him at a string of parties dancing with women who wore the latest fashions and flirted charmingly.

Vexed by the growing fear that she would never see him again, Betsy paced before the drawing room windows by the hour, twisting a handkerchief until it was reduced to a frayed rag. On the third day of this behavior, Mrs. Nicholas entered the room and demanded, “Can you not find some employment? You will drive us all mad.”

Polly, who was kneeling on the sofa, gazing at Betsy over its curved back as she tried to engage her in conversation, said, “Let us go riding. I am sure the air and exertion will do you good.”

Within an hour, the two young women were on horseback trotting down a country road that led between barren fields bordered by split-rail fences. The land rolled gently to the horizon, and in the distance, Betsy could just make out the misty blue silhouette of hills. The temperature was crisp and the sky clear. Although she would not admit it to her companion, it felt good to be out of the house and in the open air.

After glancing sideways at Betsy several times, Polly said, “I thought we could ride to the river and back if that is agreeable.”

“I don’t care. It matters little where I am.”

They passed a grove of bare oaks where squirrels raced through the undergrowth gathering acorns from beneath crackling brown leaves. Moments later, Polly tried again. “Betsy, I know that you greatly regret your separation from Lieutenant Bonaparte, but is it not best to put him out of your mind? From what John said, he seems to be a man of questionable character.”

“A pretty instance of the pot calling the kettle black. John’s drunkenness hardly qualifies him as a model of rectitude. And if I were to tell of the other hypocrisies in my family—”

Polly raised her left hand to shield the side of her face. “I do not want to hear. I don’t think it very kind of you to use people’s weaknesses as weapons in your campaign to achieve what you desire.”

Betsy pulled up her horse. “It is very easy for you and John to deride my efforts to obtain what I want. No one is throwing obstacles in the way of your happiness.”

Seeing that Betsy had halted, Polly pulled her horse around and came back. “No one wishes to make you unhappy.”

“Then why can you not understand? I love Bonaparte, and every day we are separated is a torment. It is all that I can do to keep myself from running to New York in search of him.”

“Betsy!” Polly’s agitation was so pronounced that it unsettled her horse, and she had to calm him by rubbing his withers. “If you have made such threats to your family, it is no wonder that they despair of you. No decent woman says such things.”

“Polly, we are nearly the same age. Do you truly have no conception of what I mean? You say you want to marry my brother and yet you propose to wait for years. Do you never lie awake at night and burn for him?”

The other girl blushed. “I will not discuss such things.”

“Then we have nothing whatever to say to one another.” Jerking the reigns, Betsy turned her horse around, lashed it with her crop, and galloped back to the house.

POLLY REPORTED THE conversation to her mother, who wrote her displeasure to the Pattersons that very night. Within four days came the reply that John should bring Betsy home. He was so furious with her for having upset Polly and disrupted the Nicholas household that he barely spoke during the two-day journey—a silence Betsy viewed as a godsend rather than the rebuff he intended.

They arrived home late at night, and Betsy went straight to her room. Her mother brought her some soup and bread on a tray.

“Child, you cannot go on like this,” Dorcas said as she stood watching her daughter eat.

Betsy set down her spoon. “Mother, what have I done that is so terrible? I fell in love with a man who stands accused of wrongdoing, but nothing is proved. Yet when I beg for him to be allowed to defend himself, everyone treats me as though I were a strumpet.”

“You told Polly you wanted to run away to New York in search of him.”

“Polly is a ninny with no depth of feeling.”

Dorcas pushed a few strands of hair back into her cap. “You know that I like Lieutenant Bonaparte. He is very amiable, but ease of manner is not everything. We cannot allow you to marry a rake.”

Folding her arms across her chest, Betsy glared at her mother. “You condemn him on the basis of gossip. I know that he tried to speak to Father about the accusations and was turned away. Without investigating, how can Father be so sure that the letter is truthful? There could be other explanations.”

Dorcas sighed. “William told us of your belief. But Lieutenant Bonaparte has left Baltimore and evidently given up his design of marrying you. For the sake of your happiness, you must accept that this is over.”

“I can never be happy without him, Mother. And I do not believe that all is lost. If Father were to ask Reubell, I am sure that he could reach Bonaparte and ask him to return.”

Dorcas shook her head. “Your father believes it best to end the acquaintance.”

Betsy pushed away her half-eaten soup. “You can take this back downstairs.”

“You have to eat.”

“No, Mother. I cannot.”

As soon as she was alone, Betsy began to pace. There had to be a way to convince her father to let her contact Jerome. Perhaps if she agreed to a long engagement to give her parents time to test his character, her father might relent.

Inspired by the idea, Betsy left her room and descended the stairs quietly, uncertain what manner of reception might await her. As she neared the drawing room doorway, she heard her father say, “I am at my wit’s end. I do not know what else to do with her.”

John broke in, “Father, if she is so determined, let her marry the man. If he proves, as we suspect, to be a libertine, then she will have to live with his infidelities.”

“You are talking about your own sister. And that possibility is not the worst of my fears. The letter warned that Lieutenant Bonaparte intended to marry her and then cast her off as soon as he felt it safe to return to France. I do not want her to end up as an abandoned wife.”

“Mr. Patterson, I fear a much worse possibility,” Betsy’s mother said, her voice breaking. “What if he leaves without marrying her and we find out later that she is carrying his child?”

“Do you really believe that things have gone so far?”

“I don’t know. We made every effort to prevent such intimacies, but who can be sure with young people? Their passion for each other is so very great that it has changed her.”

“Changed her? How?”

To Betsy’s surprise, William Jr. answered, “I think I know what Mother means. At first, I thought these tantrums were a calculated move on Betsy’s part to achieve the highborn match she desires. I do not think so now. Her emotions have an intensity that took me by surprise.”

“And you attribute this change to the possibility that they have been intimate?”

“I do not think any of us know the answer to that question.”