The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte (21 page)

Jerome’s look of annoyance melted away. “A baby? You are going to have a baby?”

When Betsy nodded, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. She heard catcalls from nearby crew members, but she did not care. Jerome released her, and putting one arm protectively around her shoulders, walked her back to the captain. “Madame Bonaparte is correct. We cannot run such a risk.”

“But sir, Ambassador Turreau was adamant that you must go back to France without further delay. When I arrive in Paris, how will I explain your refusal to Minister Decrès?”

Smiling down at Betsy, Jerome said, “Tell him that we dare not endanger the safety of a future imperial prince.”

The captain looked from one to the other, and his face registered understanding. “All the more reason for you to make your peace with the emperor. Sir, I beg of you to leave your wife here where her family can care for her and her child, while you sail with us.”

“No,” Jerome said, reassuming his hauteur. “What you ask is impossible. Kindly have a boat prepared to row us to shore.”

XV

B
ECAUSE it was too late in the year to attempt an Atlantic crossing, Jerome rented a town house in Baltimore for the winter. He also purchased suites of imported furniture, and sets of French porcelain and silver.

Betsy asked, “Is all this necessary? Our residence will be temporary.”

Looking up from his accounts, Jerome frowned. “Elisa, we must be seen to live in a manner befitting the imperial family.” When she questioned him further about the expense, he thrust out his chin and replied that a friend had recently obtained funds for him in Paris.

Since their return, Jerome’s temper had grown fitful. Although he remained affectionate toward Betsy, he was quick to take offense at perceived slights by others, and he relied more than ever on the pursuit of pleasure to alleviate boredom. That winter they gave party after party.

The Reubells had sailed to France the previous summer, and feeling lonely without Henriette, Betsy cultivated two other friendships. One was with Eliza Anderson, a young woman whose father was a Baltimore physician. At nineteen, she had married Henry Anderson, who later went bankrupt and left town in 1801, abandoning his wife and baby daughter. Now living in complete dependence on her father, Eliza relished the chance to attend the Bonapartes’ elegant parties, and Betsy enjoyed talking to someone who criticized Baltimore as sharply as she did. Eliza was no beauty—she had a square-jawed face and dull, ash-blonde hair—but she was intelligent, well read, and practical.

The other friendship grew out of Betsy’s notoriety as Jerome’s wife. To her amusement, she had become an idol to the younger belles of Baltimore, among them Marianne Caton. Three years younger than Betsy, Marianne had just begun to appear in society. She attended the Bonapartes’ soirees, called on Betsy in the afternoons, and imitated Betsy’s fashions—although somewhat more modestly. To have Charles Carroll’s granddaughter emulate her pleased Betsy. When she first entered society, there had been a subtle but very real divide between the daughters of aristocratic planters and the daughters of merchants. Betsy would sometimes hear of balls to which she had not been invited—a practice that stopped as soon as the young men of Baltimore made it plain that they cared more about her beauty and wit than her mercantile origins.

Betsy’s one concern about her new friendship was the niggling fear that it might not be safe for Jerome to spend time with Marianne, a stunning dark-haired beauty with melting brown eyes. Marianne had a sweet manner that drew men like honey and an elegant, almost gliding walk. As Betsy’s waist began to thicken, she worried that her husband’s interest might stray to the appealing younger woman.

Her uneasiness lessened one night when Le Camus remarked that Marianne was the loveliest girl he had seen in America.

“Bah.” Jerome poured himself a glass of wine. “Who wants all that sugary goodness? It would be like living with a nun.”

“Then she does not attract you?” Betsy asked.

Although she tried to sound casual, Jerome must have perceived her anxiety because he came and stroked her shoulder.
“Non, ma femme.
I greatly prefer your fire to her ice.”

That winter, they received several letters from Robert. In October, he wrote that the Paris journals had published a paragraph claiming that reports of Jerome’s American marriage were false, that he might have a mistress but could not, as a minor, have a wife. Because any negative report about his family would need Napoleon’s permission to be published, Robert sent a warning:

The Consul’s determination is now but too plain. It is fortunate Jerome is still in America. He ought to remain there for the present, until his friends have recognized his marriage. If his family are determined on proceeding to extremities, they will possibly, to oblige him to return, curtail his supplies—perhaps withhold them altogether.

That letter arrived in December. A month later, a new letter reported:

I am told, and I have it from such authority as makes it unquestionable, that the other members of the family are very desirous of reconciling the principal. It is not unlikely but they may eventually succeed.

Robert advised remaining quiet and avoiding any actions that might offend Napoleon, but counseled that if Jerome was forced to return to France, he should take Betsy with him.

Characteristically, Jerome took the most optimistic view of the situation, and his hopeful assessment seemed to find corroboration in a warm message from Joseph, his eldest brother.

Since your affections have led you far from your family and from your friends, I feel, for my part, that you cannot renounce them. Tell Mrs. Jerome from me, that as soon as she arrives, and is acknowledged by the chief of the family, she will not find a more affectionate brother than I. I have every reason to believe, after what I have heard of her, that her qualities and character will promote your happiness, and inspire us with an esteem and friendship that I shall be very much pleased to express to her.

Not long after, they received their first communication from Jerome’s mother,
Madame Mère,
who sent a warning through a family friend that if they sailed into a French port, Jerome would be arrested and Betsy would be deported.
Madame Mère
suggested that Jerome send his wife to Holland while he returned to France alone to appeal to Napoleon.

“Everyone gives contradictory advice,” Betsy said one afternoon after she and Jerome reviewed the correspondence that had arrived over the winter. “How can we possibly decide what to do?”

“I think Robert’s counsel is best. We should remain quiet for the time being and allow the tempest of Napoleon’s wrath to die down.”

What about money?
she wondered but dared not ask. Jerome grew angry any time she questioned their finances.

In late February, the newspapers published reports that wounded Jerome’s pride. On December 2, 1804, Napoleon had crowned himself emperor and Josephine empress in an elaborate ceremony presided over by the pope at Notre Dame Cathedral. According to the accounts, Napoleon was dressed in a gold-embroidered white satin tunic and a crimson velvet mantle, lined with ermine and embroidered with golden bees, the symbol he had chosen to replace the royal fleur-de-lis. Soon afterward, Joseph and Louis were made imperial princes, while Lucien and Jerome were snubbed because of the emperor’s anger over their marriages.

“You can still be made a prince once you and Napoleon have reconciled,” Betsy said in response to Jerome’s petulant frown.

“Yes, Elisa, I can still become a prince. But I shall never again have the chance to participate in such pageantry. He has denied that to me forever.”

And what about me?
she wondered.
Did I not have the right to be one of the Bonaparte sisters carrying Josephine’s train?

Folding her hands over her abdomen and feeling the baby kick, Betsy told herself it did not matter. She was now playing for higher stakes than a place at court. Since Josephine had proven unable to give Napoleon a child, one of his brothers would have to provide his heir, and Betsy was gambling that one day the crown might descend to her son.

IN MARCH 1805, Patterson offered Jerome and Betsy one of his ships, a slim, new, two-masted schooner called the
Erin.
It was so fast that he was certain it could outrun any warships they might encounter—and because of his experience running ammunition during the Revolutionary War, Betsy felt secure in accepting her father’s judgment. Patterson also supplied the ship with provisions and had cabins fitted for the passengers.

Traveling with the Bonapartes would be Jerome’s manservant, Betsy’s maid Jenny, Dr. Garnier, Alexandre Le Camus, William Patterson Jr., and Betsy’s friend Eliza Anderson as her companion.

At the family meeting during which these plans were discussed, Betsy’s mother asked, “Don’t you think you should wait until the baby is born?”

Seeing her husband slouch in his chair reminded Betsy of how irritable he had been throughout the winter. She feared that if she caused him to stay longer in Baltimore, he might begin to resent her. “No, we must get to France as soon as possible to heal the breach with the emperor.”

Jerome sat up straight and added, “We will have the doctor with us.”

Betsy frowned. She had already told her mother that she did not want Garnier to deliver her child. She did not trust him. Ever since Garnier missed their wedding on the pretext of illness, she had suspected him of playing a false part with regard to her. Recently, the doctor had fallen into the habit of reminding Jerome to be careful with his wife because she was prone to hysterics—it made him seem solicitous in Jerome’s eyes while at the same time planting the suspicion that Betsy was moody and unreliable. Whenever she protested that she was happy and well, Garnier shook his head and murmured, “See how Madame Bonaparte tries to put on a brave face.”

Stymied in her attempt to dissuade Betsy, Dorcas turned to her husband, but Patterson held up a hand. “If they must go, I judge it best that they leave soon, before the British start patrolling for them again.”

“Betsy, at least, should stay here.”

“Mother, I cannot. Jerome and I must face this together.”

Patterson reached over to pat his wife’s hand. “My dear, Robert is already in Europe, and I am sending William with Betsy as extra protection. It is known that our family has the friendship of President Jefferson. Napoleon would not dare harm our daughter. The worst that can happen is that he may send her back alone.”

“Since that is the case,” added Betsy, “we have nothing to lose by my sailing to France and possibly everything to gain.”

Dorcas subsided in her chair, and the discussion moved on to practical details.

THEY BOARDED THE ship on Sunday, March 10, and two days later sailed out of Chesapeake Bay. After consulting with Captain Stephenson, they had decided to make for Lisbon, which lay outside Napoleon’s empire. As William Patterson had promised, the
Erin
was a swift vessel, and the one time they saw a warship on the horizon, they easily outran it.

During the voyage, seasickness plagued Betsy. The motion of the ship and the smells below deck—tar, mildew, damp canvas, human waste—nauseated her, and she spent many days confined to her bunk with the porthole open to admit fresh air. Jerome, Eliza Anderson, and Betsy’s maid also experienced bouts of sickness, but not as severely as Betsy, who attributed the intensity of her reaction to pregnancy.

Spending hours in her bunk alone, unable to sleep because of the creaking hull, the pounding footsteps overhead, and the clanging ship’s bell, Betsy rehearsed little speeches to use when she met Napoleon. Jerome had warned her that his brother preferred sweet, submissive women, so she tried to imagine what her mother or Marianne Caton would say. When that exercise grew tiresome, she composed witticisms that might win the emperor’s respect despite his reservations.

On days with calm weather, Betsy and Eliza sat on deck enjoying the sun and fresh air. They amused themselves by exchanging gossip about mutual acquaintances, while Jerome, William, Le Camus, and Garnier played whist and backgammon.

Near Europe, they encountered two days of foul weather that triggered another spell of violent seasickness. Betsy could not keep a thing on her stomach and at the end of the second day suffered a prolonged bout of dry heaves. By the time she ceased retching, her diaphragm ached, her throat was raw, and the baby dragged on her body like a boulder. Betsy lay in her bunk as Jerome bathed her face with a damp cloth and dribbled tiny amounts of water between her cracked lips. Finally, she slept.

The next morning when she awoke, Jerome was watching her. “How are you?”

She smiled. “Weary, but so far my stomach feels calm.”

He kissed her forehead. “I will fetch breakfast.”

About ten minutes later, Eliza entered her cabin with a mug and a plate. “I brought you some tea and bread. Are you well enough to eat?”

Betsy sat up. “I think so. But Jerome said he would bring my breakfast.”

“I asked to do so. I need to talk to you alone.”

After taking the mug of tea and sipping cautiously, Betsy said, “About what?”

“To warn you to be wary of your husband’s companions. I fear they are not your allies.”

“Why do you say so?”

Eliza sat on the edge of the bunk and spoke quietly, “Yesterevening I went to ask the doctor if there was anything else to do for your relief. When I reached his cabin, the door was ajar and I heard voices within. Le Camus was complaining that your husband’s obstinacy was going to bring down the emperor’s wrath on all of them.”

“I have never sensed that he favored our marriage.”

“He said he had warned Mr. Bonaparte that it was imperative to get out of this entanglement before you found yourself in a family way, and Garnier replied, ‘The child is not the problem. The emperor is a man of the world and would surely accommodate his brother’s bastard. The problem is Miss Patterson and her insistence on the marriage.’ ”

Betsy rubbed her forehead. “So after all his professions of concern, even the doctor works against me. I wonder how far their pernicious influence has managed to weaken Jerome’s attachment.”

“I do not think it has.” Eliza stood and picked up a shirt Jerome had dropped on the cabin floor. She folded it and put it in one of the drawers beneath the bunk. Betsy felt embarrassed to have Eliza do such menial things even though she knew her friend was only trying to make the cabin more pleasant for her. Eliza went on, “Le Camus said that he has never known Mr. Bonaparte to be so constant to any woman. He even laughed about growing indolent from lack of his usual employment procuring female companionship.”

“What an abominable man.”

“Yes, he is devious and given wholly to self-interest.” Eliza moved to the writing desk and straightened the untidy papers and quills on its surface. “But you can take heart in knowing that your husband has not wavered in his devotion to you.”

“So far. He has yet to be tried in the crucible of Napoleon’s wrath.” Feeling a slight stomach cramp, Betsy handed her mug to Eliza. “This means if Jerome and I are separated, he will have no one at his side to speak on my behalf.”