The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte (35 page)

Betsy smiled. “Thank you, Colonel. I want him to learn discipline, as I fear he may take after one who has never shown much self-control.”

Raising his eyebrows, Tousard nodded. “I comprehend perfectly, Madame.”

Betsy was gratified that he addressed her as
madame
rather than
mademoiselle.
Seeing that Bo was following their conversation, she said quietly, “In English, we have a saying,
Little pitchers have big ears.
Whatever you may know about my past disappointments or about the person with whom I once had an intimate connection, the subject is not to be discussed in front of your charge. The paternal reputation must be preserved.”

Tousard bowed his head in acknowledgment. “Yes, Madame.”

THAT FEBRUARY BETSY turned twenty-five. She enjoyed herself more that winter than at any time since her separation from Jerome. Having money freed her from the vexing dependency on her father, and having Tousard in her household freed her from the burdensome feeling that she alone was responsible for her son. At parties, she danced and conversed with a new
joie de vivre.
Still, she was careful to state often that she did not wish to remarry, and everyone seemed to take her at her word—perhaps the rampant gossip about Oakeley had taught men in Washington that they would pursue her at their peril.

Turreau finally received a letter saying that Napoleon approved of the decision to start the pension and that he still intended to grant Mademoiselle Patterson a title if she did not marry an Englishman. Betsy received this information with an appropriately sober expression. In her heart, however, she exulted that Oakeley’s attentions had roused the emperor at last.

In late winter, Washington society learned the shocking news that Napoleon had divorced Josephine. Earlier, when he was in Austria negotiating the Treaty of Schönbrunn, a rash young German had plotted to stab him, an event that reawakened Napoleon’s fear that his empire would not survive his death. He had learned that it was Josephine, not he, who was responsible for their childless state, so he decided he must have a younger wife who could give him a son. In the spring, word came that the emperor had married nineteen-year-old Marie Louise of Austria, thus allying himself with one of France’s bitterest enemies.

Although Betsy had less reason to be surprised by the news than anyone, it depressed her. The emperor’s willingness to cast aside the woman he adored stirred up painful memories of his ruthlessness in destroying her marriage to Jerome. Telling herself that she had reason to be grateful to Napoleon now, she tried not to dwell on her past unhappiness.

Even so, Betsy’s mood crashed to earth. Her pension enabled her to support herself and maintain a suitable position, but she wanted more than that. She wanted to save for Bo’s future. Over the years as she mingled in society, she had realized that a lifetime of independent reading was no match for the systematic education that distinguished the people she admired most. Betsy had determined that Bo must become a man of letters like Jefferson and Madison. Such an education would prepare him for a position among the ruling classes—and impart to him the discipline his father lacked.

When she quizzed Tousard, she learned that living in France was more expensive than the United States, so she could not spend all her income now if she wanted to pay for European schooling later. This realization forced Betsy to economize by continuing to remake her wardrobe, washing her own laundry, and hiring a single maid instead of a staff. Because of her own experience of helpless dependency, she had sworn that she would never own a slave.

Betsy soon concluded that she not only needed to cut expenses, but she also must make her money grow. She decided not to ask her father’s advice because she feared he would take control of her pension—and also because it would be more gratifying to prove that she could build a fortune without him. To learn sound investment principles, she questioned Aunt Nancy and several gentlemen acquaintances who were experienced at business. At first, the men laughed at the idea of a woman entering the commercial sphere—a reaction that infuriated Betsy—but she controlled her temper by reminding herself that Bo’s fate depended on her success. She hated pretending to be helpless, but whenever she deemed it necessary, she would bat her eyelashes as though fighting back tears and say in a tremulous voice, “But sir, I must take on this task if I am to provide for my poor, fatherless son.” Invariably, that performance drew forth helpful recommendations.

Even so, Betsy did not act on all the advice she was offered. She had no intention of indulging in risky speculation of the sort that had bankrupted Marianne’s father. Rather, she would take a cautious approach and buy only stocks that looked safe. One company she liked was the Union Manufacturing Company, a textile factory near Baltimore. Because the embargo had choked off imports, industry was developing in the United States, and Betsy reasoned that as the population grew, companies that made necessities were sure to prosper. At first, she bought only a few shares, but when they had grown in value after six months, she bought a few more.

These concerns absorbed her so that 1810 sped by. She and Bo spent the summer at Springfield, but family troubles marred the normally pleasant season. Seventeen-year-old Margaret had been diagnosed with consumption during the winter, and now even in the wholesome country air, her strength failed rapidly. Many afternoons, Betsy sat outside under the trees with her two sisters. Margaret had been studying drawing with Eliza’s husband, Maximilien Godefroy, and sometimes Betsy and Caroline sat sketching with her. Increasingly, however, Margaret was too weary to do even that. Their mother tempted her with chicken in aspic, fruit compote, and blancmange, but Margaret continued to waste away.

Even as Betsy fretted over her sister’s health, she worried about the possible danger to Bo from living with a consumptive. She thanked God that Colonel Tousard kept him outdoors most of each day learning to ride a pony, an activity the child adored. Tousard also guarded Bo from mishaps. Nine-year-old Henry and seven-year-old Octavius were reckless, and they dared Bo to take risky chances until Tousard told them, “Anyone can ride like a wild Indian. I am teaching him the skills of a soldier in the emperor’s cavalry.” After that, all three boys followed the colonel’s directions.

Betsy returned to Washington that fall but kept in touch with her mother by letter, so she knew that Margaret grew weaker by the month. When Betsy came back to South Street for the holidays, she could see that her sister would not live long. Margaret passed away on January 5, 1811. Dorcas’s despair was so deep that she did not leave her room for days, and Betsy began to wonder if she would need to remain in Baltimore indefinitely. After two weeks of mourning, however, her mother told her to return to the capital city. “You have had enough unhappiness. I want you to enjoy yourself now that you can.”

Before leaving Baltimore, Betsy asked her brother Robert to look for a small house she could buy, so she and Bo could live independently when they were in town. Her mother was not strong, and Betsy did not want to keep burdening her with two extra people.

A few days after they returned to Washington, Tousard surprised Betsy by coming into her parlor and saying, “General Turreau wishes to be received.”

She looked up from her sewing. “The ambassador is here? Surely, he must know I cannot receive him without a chaperon.”

“I will remain, Madame, if you wish.”

“Thank you, Colonel. Allow me a moment before you show the general in.” Betsy rose, folded the gown she was altering, and stored it in her workbasket. Then she sat on the sofa.

As Turreau entered, Betsy saw that he was wearing his best clothes. After bowing to her, he told Tousard, “You may go.”

“Please sit down, General. I asked Colonel Tousard to remain. It is not my habit to receive gentlemen callers alone.”

Scowling, Turreau sat without argument. Tousard stood silently by the door.

“I have come to tell you that I have been recalled to France. The emperor sent a new ambassador to replace me.”

“I see.” Betsy’s thoughts raced furiously. While Washingtonians would be glad to be rid of the disagreeable man, she wondered if the change would affect her pension.

Turreau crossed his legs and glanced around the room as though curious to know how Betsy lived. He picked up an English porcelain figurine from the table beside his chair—it was a fisherman’s wife holding a basket of fish. Jerome had bought it for Betsy years before to remind her of the trip to Niagara and their joking banter of what they might do to escape Napoleon’s control. It was one of the few ornaments she had saved when her father confiscated her household things. Turreau looked at the figurine, curled his upper lip in disdain, and set it down.

Then he nodded at Betsy. “Mademoiselle Patterson, you must know the respect I have gained for you by observing your conduct these last several years.”

“Thank you,
mon général,
you are very kind.”

“Your beauty and other amiable qualities are wasted in this backward country. A brilliant woman like you belongs in Paris.”

Blinking in surprise, Betsy wondered why he was saying such things. Had Napoleon decreed that this disagreeable man should escort Bo and her to France? “As you know, that is my dearest desire, but I must wait upon his imperial majesty to grant me permission.”

“I am certain that such permission would be forthcoming if he knew that there was no longer any danger of your tempting King Jerome from his current alliance.”

“Whatever can you mean? I have severed all connection with King Jerome.”

“Yes, but the emperor would feel more certain that you could not be a distraction if you were to become the wife of one of his officers.” With a flourish, Turreau placed a hand upon his heart. “I speak of myself, of course. You cannot have failed to notice that the respect I feel for you has deepened into passionate admiration. But I do not ask you to reciprocate those feelings. I speak only of a marriage of convenience so that you may be presented at court where you belong. I have every confidence that once the emperor meets you and sees your admirable qualities, he will elevate you to the rank of duchess.”

“Thus making you a duke?”

The general shrugged. “Perhaps.”

Appalled at the thought of an alliance with him, Betsy rose to her feet. “What you suggest is completely impossible!”

Turreau stood too but before he could speak, Betsy declared, “After having been married to a man I loved, nothing would induce me to accept such a cold, calculated proposal. I have told you that I am devoted to my son and have no intention of remarrying. However, were I to consider such a step, nothing—not even an order from the emperor—could persuade me to accept you.”

Turreau’s face grew purple, and he took a threatening step toward her, stopping only at the sound of Tousard clearing his throat. After glaring at Betsy a moment longer, Turreau turned sharply and left. As the outer door slammed, Betsy felt a sudden weakness and sank to the sofa. Colonel Tousard rushed to her side. “Madame, are you all right?”

“Yes, I— Oh, what have I done?”

“You defended yourself with honor and spirit. You behaved exactly as I would want my own daughters to.”

“Thank you. But the emperor. Do you think he will be displeased?”

“No, Madame. I have no doubt that this was a plot of Turreau’s that the emperor knows nothing about. I am sure you will find soon enough that all is well.”

“I hope so.” Betsy shuddered as she remembered the stories Dolley Madison had told her about Turreau. She recoiled from the unspeakable thought that this ogre had imagined being married to her and perhaps forcing her to submit to his will. She kicked the workbasket that sat at her feet, upending it and spilling her sewing onto the floor. “What a horrible man. I would rather die than marry him.”

XXVII

A
WEEK later, Betsy received a letter summoning her and Colonel Tousard to the French embassy. When she saw the signature, her stomach cramped in dread. The new ambassador was Louis Sérurier, the official who had separated her from Jerome in Lisbon.

“Our last meeting did not go well,” she told Tousard as they rode together to the appointment. “I responded angrily when he carried out the emperor’s orders.”

“Madame, he is an experienced diplomat. I am sure he understood your distress.”

When they entered the ambassador’s office, Betsy saw that it no longer looked like an army headquarters as it had under Turreau. The military paraphernalia had been removed from the walls, which instead featured a portrait of Napoleon and a map of France. On the desk, a brass case holding twin inkwells had replaced Turreau’s miniature cannon.

Sérurier looked much the same as he had six years earlier except that his hairline had receded. “Mademoiselle Patterson, we meet again. I trust your son is well?”

“Yes, thank you,” Betsy replied, hoping that the query meant the official was not going to be as icy toward her as he had been in Lisbon.

“How old is he now?”

“Five, your excellency. He will be six this summer.”

Sérurier nodded and glanced at some papers on the blotter before him. “No doubt you are wondering why I sent for you.”

He paused, and Betsy realized that he expected a response. She sat up a little straighter. “No, your excellency. Since you will be my new channel of communication to the emperor, it seems only right that we should become acquainted.”

A smile flitted across Sérurier’s face, and Betsy felt certain he was thinking of their last, tempestuous conversation. At length, he said, “I hope our dealings will be more pleasant than our first meeting.”

Betsy pressed her lips tightly together and then decided to seize this opportunity to demonstrate that she had matured from the headstrong girl he had encountered so many years before. “I am certain they will be. I understand now that you were carrying out your orders, not acting from personal malice. Just as the emperor’s actions were dictated by state policy.”

He nodded and picked up the cut-crystal stopper to one of the inkwells and rotated it between his fingertips. “I thought you should know that Turreau’s recall does not change your arrangement. His imperial majesty has instructed me to continue your pension.”

“Thank you. Has he—” Betsy hesitated and clasped her gloved hands together in her lap to keep them from trembling and betraying her eagerness.

“Yes, Mademoiselle?”

“The emperor has promised to grant me a title and arrange for us to live in Europe.” She looked at Sérurier inquisitively, but his face betrayed nothing. “Do you know if he has done so?”

Sérurier shook his head. “I regret to say that was not part of my instructions. But I must discharge another matter. I am sorry to deprive you of your aide, but Minister Champagny has decided that Colonel Tousard would serve the empire better by returning to the diplomatic service. Colonel, you have been appointed to the post at New Orleans.”

Thinking of Bo’s fondness for the colonel, Betsy shot Tousard an anguished glance. His expression remained impassive. To Sérurier, she said, “Will someone be appointed in his place?”

“No, Mademoiselle. If you want your son to have a tutor, you must hire one.”

“It was my understanding that General Turreau took on this responsibility less for my son’s education than for his protection.”

Sérurier put the stopper back in the inkwell. “Minister Champagny believes that the danger is less than Turreau imagined. Please do not alarm yourself, Mademoiselle. The emperor continues to feel the deepest concern for your son.” He smiled and folded his hands together on the desk. “Do you have any other questions for me?”

“No, Monsieur.”

“Then I believe we have nothing else to discuss.” They all rose. Sérurier said, “Colonel Tousard, I will send you copies of your orders by the end of the week.”

“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?”