The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte (11 page)

“Dear God,” Patterson cried, and Betsy heard him pound the furniture. For a moment, she hesitated, torn between the indignant desire to defend herself and the shamefaced realization that letting her family believe the worst might turn the tide in the direction she wanted. Finally, pragmatism won and she quietly slipped back upstairs.

VIII

W
HEN Betsy entered the dining room the next morning, she saw an unfamiliar, stout, grey-haired woman setting the coffeepot on the table between her mother and William Jr.

“Who is this?”

Betsy’s mother answered, “Meet our new housekeeper. Mrs. McDougal, this is our eldest daughter Elizabeth.”

“Miss.” The woman bobbed her head in Betsy’s direction, folded up the towel she had used to hold the coffeepot, and left the room.

Betsy sat in one of the splat-back chairs and shot Robert a questioning look. He answered with a shake of his head and continued eating porridge.

“What do you want for breakfast?” Dorcas asked.

“I am not hungry. All I require is bread and tea.”

As Betsy reached for the cornbread, her mother filled her teacup. William looked up from his paper. “Are you ill? Did you catch something from one of the Nicholas children?”

“No, my appetite has failed the last few days, that is all.” Seeing her mother and William exchange a quick glance, Betsy wondered if they feared her queasiness was a confirmation of pregnancy. Here in the cold light of morning she realized she could not carry out her plan to deceive them because it would grieve her mother. She rose to fetch the honey pot from the sideboard. “My stomach always turns tetchy when I am distressed.”

“Are you certain that is the problem?”

Betsy faced her mother. “Yes, it could not be anything else.”

“I am glad. I would not want anyone in the Nicholas family to be ill.”

Resuming her seat, Betsy said, “May I inform Henriette of my return?”

Robert pushed his empty bowl to the side. “Do you think that wise?”

“Am I a prisoner being held incognito?”

“Of course not,” William said. “What Robert means is—”

“I know what he means. You fear the Reubells will tell Lieutenant Bonaparte where I am. But if you mean to cut me off from my friends, why did you allow me to come home?”

William laid down his paper. “Betsy, do not think me unsympathetic to your plight. I know the last two weeks have been a severe trial to you. We are doing everything we can to determine the best course to take, and until we do, I counsel you to exercise patience.”

“What is there to determine? I thought Father has decreed that I am never to see Lieutenant Bonaparte again.”

“That was his initial position, but I spoke to him after my return and endeavored to make him see that a man may make mistakes and, if he changes his ways, be forgiven. Father is lately more inclined to adopt that view.” William darted a glance at the coffeepot as a way, Betsy thought, of referring to the change in housekeeper. “He may yet be persuaded to give Lieutenant Bonaparte an audience.”

Although William’s words offered only a tiny ray of hope, it was as glorious to Betsy as if he had thrown open the door freeing her from an inky-dark prison. “All I ask is for Lieutenant Bonaparte to be allowed to answer the charges.”

“I know. Give me a little more time to persuade Father. If you display defiance, you risk undoing all that I have accomplished.”

Betsy nodded, picked up her teacup, and sipped the aromatic liquid. Waiting passively for her father to change his mind was the hardest task she could imagine, but she could not deny the wisdom of her brother’s advice.

DAYS PASSED, AND Betsy began to think that William’s efforts on her behalf would never bear fruit. Life seemed even drearier than at Mount Warren, and her stomach pains persisted. She reread Jerome’s letters so many times that they lost the power to conjure his voice or recall his image. Instead she saw him in nightmares in which he danced with other women, then hurried away down corridors to disappear behind locked doors.

At odd times, she recalled hateful phrases from the anonymous letter, and she began to fear that the charges were true. Even if they were exaggerated, Jerome must bear some guilt for the misunderstandings. How improper had his behavior been? Did she really know his character well enough to entrust him with her future?

Yet, what was the alternative? Betsy could not imagine feeling the same devouring passion for anyone else, so she would have to marry for practical considerations—which would mean enduring the embraces of a man to whom she was indifferent. How could she stand that after the giddy joy of Jerome’s kisses?

And what would she gain from such a sacrifice? A wearisome life like her mother’s, bearing a dozen children and raising them to be proper Americans, pursuing commerce and possessing scant knowledge of the wider world. Betsy longed for more than that.

If she had any hope of receiving a financial settlement from her father such as Grandfather Spear had given his daughters, she could live independently as Aunt Nancy did. But William Patterson displayed no inclination to relinquish his money. Even if he were willing to settle part of his fortune on his children, Betsy felt certain that only her brothers would benefit.

Few women supported themselves. Madame Lacomb and others like her survived by running schools or giving lessons, but such occupations entailed a loss of social prestige. One Baltimore woman was professionally successful and widely admired—the newspaper publisher and former postmistress Mary Katherine Goddard—but her achievements were so exceptional as to be irrelevant to Betsy’s prospects. If Betsy were to live independently, she would most likely have to eke out a genteel but meager living doing needlework.

As she tried to decide whether to marry a man of fortune or seek to earn her own money, she felt like a blind woman groping her way down a strange corridor that opened on many unmarked passages. Betsy could find no clear indication of which one to choose. Then an unexpected whiff of lavender sachet or the sound of Joseph humming dance tunes would remind her of Jerome and cause a pang of intense longing. It maddened Betsy that her passion for him was impervious to logic. No matter how often reason told her to give Jerome up, she felt that she would pay any price to see him again.

A WEEK AFTER her return home, Betsy sat on the double-chair-backed settee before the front windows in the drawing room. She was reading the volume of verse Jerome had given her. In truth, she did not particularly like the poet, who wrote in a highly artificial manner, but she thought it was important to keep her French in practice.

However, her depressed spirits made concentrating difficult. After bogging down in an abstract passage, she set the book aside and wondered what Jerome was doing. Perhaps he was riding in a park with a young lady or being dined by a fat matron who wanted him to marry her daughter. He was almost certainly not sitting alone trying to improve himself with literature.

Betsy’s imagination conjured up a sudden, clear image of Jerome gazing at her from across the room. The vision was so strong that it produced a powerful sense of his presence. Betsy had such an overwhelming feeling that someone was staring at her that she hurried to the door to see if anyone was in the hall. The passage was empty. Returning to the settee, she knelt upon it to look out the window. In the street below, her father was approaching the house for midday dinner. A few yards away, another man walked away toward the harbor. Betsy gasped when she saw him. Above his dark blue cape was a head of curly black hair, and his gait was similar to Jerome’s. Yet, she knew Jerome to be far from Baltimore, and the cruelty of her disappointment made her grasp the settee back, lean her head upon her hands, and sob.

Then a man spoke her name.

Betsy lifted her head to see her father. Flustered at being found in such anguish, she stammered, “F-forgive me. I thought myself alone.” Hastily wiping her eyes, she rose to leave.

“Wait. I want to talk to you.”

“Please, sir, allow me to go to my room and compose myself.”

“You are fine as you are. Sit down.” Patterson nodded at the settee and then moved a chair from the nearby table to sit facing her. “You have had more command of yourself these last few days, and I hoped you were beginning to recover from your unhappiness. Was I wrong?”

Betsy gazed at her lap and did not answer.

“My dear child, are you not able to free yourself from this attachment?”

“I have tried, Father. Since returning from Mount Warren, I have endeavored to resign myself to life without Lieutenant Bonaparte. I find the prospect most distressing.”

“I wish that you were better able to govern your heart, Elizabeth. After all that has happened, how can you still wish to accept this man?”

She looked up. “Father, I have not absolutely decided to accept him. How could I? We do not know any more about his answer to the charges than we did three weeks ago. The deeds he stands accused of might be lies. Or they might be the rash impulses of youth that he regrets. Or he might indeed be a man so flawed that he would make an untrustworthy husband. Until we hear what he has to say, how can we know which is true?”

Her father scowled. “You speak like a child. Why should we believe his excuses? Will he not say whatever he thinks we wish to hear?”

Betsy’s head started to throb, so she rubbed her temples. “Father, we could debate this all day and come no nearer to reaching an agreement. Each of us is firmly convinced that our belief about Lieutenant Bonaparte is true, and we are unlikely to persuade the other. Since he has withdrawn to New York, it is pointless to discuss this any further.” Fighting tears again, she added, “You may congratulate yourself on your success in driving him away from me.”

As she rose, William Patterson held out his hand. “Wait.” He hesitated, gripped the arms of his chair, and then said, “Bonaparte has returned. He wrote to me yesterday requesting an audience, and I have spent the morning closeted with him.”

Betsy glanced at the window, certain now that Jerome had been the man she saw walking down South Street. She sank back to her seat, struggling to control her breathing. “What did he say?”

“It was a difficult conversation. He admits to some guilt but swears that the charges are exaggerated. He seems to have hoped that if he could make me appreciate the intensity of his affection, I would understand that it renders him incapable of repeating such errors. However, I fear that when his first infatuation wears off, he will return to the bad habits he contracted in youth and you will suffer the acutest misery.” He drummed the arm of his chair. “Some women can endure living with a husband’s errors, but you have not the temperament to overlook such failings for the sake of marital harmony.”

In other words, I am not as complacent as Mother,
Betsy thought bitterly. “Do you think it impossible that a man could sincerely desire to reform?”

“Not impossible but more difficult than you imagine. Bonaparte has not yet displayed the strength of character to make me think him one of the few who are capable of change.”

Patterson rose and crossed to the fireplace, where he studied the portrait of his wife and daughter. Then he turned back to Betsy. “I abhor the power that he has over you, and I fear that you are making a foolish choice.”

“I love him. And I believe that I can influence him for good.”

Drawing closer, Patterson leaned both hands upon the table and searched his daughter’s face. “Is there nothing I can say to dissuade you?”

Betsy shook her head.

“Very well. I gave him permission to call this afternoon, but I have not yet renewed my consent to the marriage. Betsy, I beg you to listen carefully to what he has to say and to look for the motive behind his words. Do not commit yourself if you harbor any doubts.”

“Yes, Father,” she said even as her heart rejoiced that she would soon see Jerome. Betsy’s relief was so great that she felt as if she might float away, so she hugged herself tightly until her father left the room. Then she jumped up, flung out her arms, and twirled in delight. Jerome still loved her and would be here within hours.

Betsy stopped spinning with a jerk. She hurried across the drawing room to the mirror that hung opposite the front windows. It was a large mirror, flanked by gilded columns and topped with an American eagle, and the glass reflected three-quarters of her figure.

I look pale.
She turned her head from side to side.
Perhaps I should put on a bit of Henriette’s rouge.

Then Betsy changed her mind. She would style her hair prettily and don one of her most attractive afternoon gowns, but she would not put on artificial color for Jerome Bonaparte. Better that he should see how much gloom and anxiety he had caused her.

A maid entered the drawing room and said, “Miss Betsy, your mother asks you to come to dinner.”

Betsy turned from the mirror. “What?”

“Dinner,” the maid repeated.

“Oh, of course. Tell her I will be there directly.”

Glancing back at the mirror, Betsy wondered whether she was really so sure that she wanted to marry Jerome. How could she ever be certain of him after the things the letter said? She hoped to God that when she saw him again, her heart would know the answer.

WHEN DORCAS SHOWED Jerome into the drawing room, Betsy stood but offered no greeting. He was uncharacteristically grave and hesitant, and his manner constrained her.

As soon as they were alone, Jerome burst out, “Elisa, you are so thin and white. I fear this contretemps has caused you to neglect your health.”

Betsy gestured for him to sit on the sofa, while she chose the safety of her mother’s banister-back chair. “I have been very unhappy. Can you possibly be surprised?”

“No,
moi aussi,
I have been in misery. It drove me mad to think that your father might not let me see you again.”

“He was doing what he thought best. The letter that he received was vile.”

“It was full of falsehood.”

His answer came too quickly and contradicted what he had earlier admitted to her father. Fixing him with a piercing look, Betsy said, “It was not entirely false. Was it?”

Jerome flushed. “No.”

Silence fell between them and Betsy found herself once again imagining him in the arms of another woman. She shut her eyes and tried to banish the thought, but the harder she fought it, the more jealous she felt. Looking at him again, she decided there was only one way to discover if she could live with his past. “Have you had many mistresses, Jerome?”