The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte (9 page)

Patterson rubbed the side of his jaw. “I suppose it must.”

For an instant, Betsy felt a spasm of guilt at causing her father so much distress, but any remorse was quickly swallowed up by joy at the prospect of being Jerome’s wife.

She jumped up and kissed her father’s cheek. “All will be well. I feel certain that Lieutenant Bonaparte and I are destined to be together.”

TWO DAYS LATER as the family sat at dinner, the post arrived, and William Patterson opened a letter marked URGENT. Within seconds, his face grew as stormy as Betsy had ever seen it. He stowed the letter in his inside pocket.

For nearly a minute, he glared down the oval table to where Jerome and Betsy sat side by side. Finally, he said, “Lieutenant Bonaparte, I have just learned of a family matter requiring some delicacy, and I must ask you to leave as soon as our meal is finished.”

Jerome looked up from his whispered conversation with fourteen-year-old Edward. “Is there no way I could be of service?”

“No, that is impossible. We require the utmost privacy.”

In response to Jerome’s inquiring glance, Betsy shook her head to indicate that she had no idea what was wrong. Glancing around the table, she saw that William Jr. and Robert looked equally flummoxed, while Edward, Joseph, and Margaret displayed open curiosity. Mercifully, the four youngest children were upstairs in the nursery, so no one filled the air with impertinent questions.

The rest of the meal passed in silence. As soon as the servants had cleared the dishes, Jerome rose and bowed to Dorcas. To Betsy he said, “I will see you tomorrow. Do not hesitate to send for me if I can be of assistance to your family.” He kissed her hand and left.

As William Jr. pushed back his chair, his father said, “No, wait. I want you, Robert, and Elizabeth to stay. The younger children may be excused.”

Frowning, Betsy wondered if her brother John had landed in a scrape in Virginia. That was the only thing she could think of to provoke an adults-only family council.

As soon as the younger children had left, Patterson removed the letter from his pocket and unfolded it again. His hand was trembling so that the paper shook as he read.

Is it possible, sir, you can so far forget yourself, and the happiness of your child, as to consent to her marrying Mr. Bonaparte? If you knew him, you never would, as misery must be her portion—he who but a few months ago destroyed the peace and happiness of a respectable family in Nantz by promising marriage, then ruined, leaving her to misery and shame. What has been his conduct in the West Indies? There ruined a lovely young woman who had only been married for a few weeks! He parted her from her husband, and destroyed that family! And here, what is his conduct? At the very moment he was demanding your daughter in marriage he ruined a young French girl, whom he now leaves also in misery!

Betsy interrupted by demanding, “Who wrote that?”

Her father looked up, frowning at her importunate tone. “The letter is unsigned.”

“Then I do not believe it. It contains nothing but lies written by someone who envies Lieutenant Bonaparte and wants to do him harm.”

“That is hardly likely,” Robert said. “The writer could do him far more harm by complaining to his superiors or the First Consul. The motive behind this letter is clearly to warn us of his false nature.”

“He is not false! He is warm and open. How can you place more trust in a scurrilous letter writer who was too cowardly to sign his name than in someone you know?”

“Oh, my poor child,” Dorcas said, coming around the table to embrace Betsy. “I know you must be upset to learn that your fears about Lieutenant Bonaparte’s character are justified.”

William Patterson jerked in surprise. “Madam, to what fears do you refer?”

Betsy wanted to pull away from her mother, but she managed to conceal her fury over the betrayal of her confidence. “Mother misunderstood me. I once said that I feared Lieutenant Bonaparte was too impulsive to make a suitable husband. But I never meant to imply that I thought him capable of such calculated debauchery. I do not believe it.”

“Elizabeth! You astonish me. Do you mean to say that you accepted this man even though you had qualms about his character?”

“I do not have qualms, Father. I only remarked that he is a less disciplined man than you might wish. I have no fear that Lieutenant Bonaparte means to abandon me. Why would he trouble to obtain a license and plan a wedding if marriage were not his object?”

“You foolish girl. Do you think a marriage vow in a foreign country will hold a man like that? Listen to what else this letter says: ‘He now wishes to secure himself a home at your expense until things can be arranged for his return to France, when rest assured he will be the first to turn your daughter off and laugh at your credulity.’ Betsy, can you not admit the possibility that Lieutenant Bonaparte has deceived you?”

As her father asked that question, Betsy had the strange feeling that her character, not Jerome’s, was on trial and she must testify well to save her life. “No, Father, I cannot. I know Lieutenant Bonaparte loves me and I swear to you that he has treated me honorably. Even if he has made past errors of judgment, does not any Christian deserve the chance to redeem himself?”

Patterson shook his head. “Not at the risk of my daughter’s happiness.”

“But Father, I love him. My happiness depends on him.”

“My child, I know you believe that now, but you will recover from this blow. You are young and know little of the world. A man like that cannot be trusted.”

Betsy’s temper snapped. “How can you look me in the eye and say that? Do you think me blind to what goes on in this very house?”

Dorcas cried out and pulled away from Betsy, while William Patterson’s face turned purple. After a moment, he rose, stood behind his chair, and gripped the top of it with white-knuckled hands. “The only question under discussion is Lieutenant Bonaparte’s conduct, which I find completely unacceptable. You will write to him immediately and end your engagement.”

“I will not.”

“Yes, Elizabeth, you will. You have one hour to produce an appropriate letter. If you do not, I will, and I assure you I will express myself in more brutal terms than you would like.”

He moved toward the door, paused, and turned back. “As of tomorrow, you leave this house. I am sending you to relatives, where Bonaparte will be unlikely to find you.”

“Where?”

“You will find out during the journey. Your eldest brother will accompany you. William, come with me. We have much to discuss before your departure.”

BETSY SAT ON her bed with a portable writing desk on her lap, staring through tear-blurred eyes at a blank page on the green baize surface. She had already written and rejected three drafts of a letter. What she wanted was to word the message in such a way that would satisfy her father while still giving Jerome hope, but such a task was beyond her skill.

She had just written, “Dear Sir,” for the fourth time when a knock sounded on her door.

“What is it?” she called irritably, certain that her mother had been sent to hurry her.

Instead, it was her brother Edward. A sensitive boy, as given to passionate outbursts and willful independence as Betsy, he slipped into the room, checked to make sure no one had seen him, and shut the door. “Is it true? Is Father making you give up Lieutenant Bonaparte?”

“Yes.”

“But why?” Edward strode toward her. “I like Jerome.”

“I like him too, but—” She fell silent as her tears started to flow. After wiping her eyes with an already damp handkerchief, she said, “Someone accused him anonymously of wrongdoing, so Father has withdrawn his consent for the match.”

“That is very mean of him. Do you want me to ask him to give Jerome another chance?”

“No, Edward. You would only make Father angrier and get yourself in trouble.”

“I don’t care. I want to help.”

“You cannot.” With a sense of doom that she thought must rival the feelings of a noblewoman being sent to the guillotine, Betsy picked up her quill. As she again tried to compose the perfect farewell, her brother’s restless pacing distracted her. Then an idea struck.

“Edward, if I keep Father and Mother occupied in the drawing room, do you think you can slip out of the house without anyone seeing you?”

He nodded vehemently. “I think so. Why?”

“I need you to take a secret message to Lieutenant Bonaparte’s house. No one else must ever know. Do you promise?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, filled with youthful ardor over being given a mission.

Quickly, Betsy crossed out the formal greeting and scrawled a message below it:

Dearest Lieutenant Bonaparte. My father has received an anonymous letter making the vilest of accusations against you. I believe them to be lies, but all my pleading has been in vain, and he has revoked his consent to our marriage. Shortly you will receive a formal communication from me to that effect. Know that I am forced to take this step and that my heart is unchanged. Tomorrow Father sends me from Baltimore, I know not where. If you love me, make every effort to repair this breach so we can be reunited. I remain yours. E.P.

VII

T
HE next morning Betsy’s father woke her before sunrise. He allowed her only a quick breakfast of bread and tea before he bundled her and William into the family coach, which waited in front of their house. Peter, the family’s enslaved coachman, lifted Betsy’s trunk onto the luggage shelf in back and then climbed onto the high driver’s seat.

Patterson leaned through the window next to Betsy’s seat. “I know yesterday’s events came as a shock, Elizabeth. I hope you will use this opportunity to put Bonaparte out of your heart and recover the good sense I know you to possess.”

Glancing past him to the upstairs windows of her home, Betsy felt unhappy that she had not been given time to tell her mother good-bye. “How long before I may return?”

“That depends entirely upon you.” Patterson turned to his oldest son, who sat in the opposite seat, his arms crossed before him and a resentful scowl upon his face. “William, remember all that we discussed yesterday evening.”

“Yes, Father.”

Even though the sun had fully risen by then, the grey November sky threatened rain, so William pulled down and fastened the curtains on the carriage doors and either side of his seat. Likewise, Betsy pulled down the curtain between her and the street, but not the nearest one. She did not want to feel completely shut in with her disapproving oldest brother.

Unfolding a newspaper, William began to read. Betsy gazed at passing buildings as the coach moved slowly, clattering on the cobbles. Within moments, they passed the narrow brick town house Jerome had rented, but she saw no sign of activity in the windows. What would happen if she leaped out and pounded his brass doorknocker? Would he open the door in time to admit her before her brother forced her back into the coach? Was Jerome even awake at this early hour? Before she could act on her impulse, they turned west onto Market Street. To Betsy’s ears, the clopping of hooves on the stones counted out the increasing distance from her love.

When they turned south onto Bladensburg Road, Betsy deduced that she was being sent to one of three locations: to Washington, where the Smiths were in residence; to Richmond, where her cousin Mary Spear was married to Philip Norborne Nicholas; or to Wilson Cary Nicholas’s plantation, Mount Warren, where her brother John was living.

As the coach drove through the Maryland countryside, Betsy noticed a young man dressed in rough homespun clothes picking late apples in an orchard. When he caught sight of her, he took off his ragged straw hat and made a clumsy bow. The gesture, though awkward, reminded her of Jerome and brought tears to her eyes.

Not long afterward, a light rain began to fall and mist blew into her face, so Betsy fastened the last curtain.

William snapped his paper in irritation and set it aside. “It is too damned dark to read.”

Half rising, he removed a snuffbox from his greatcoat pocket, took out a pinch of powdered tobacco, inhaled it, and then sneezed into a handkerchief. Betsy suspected he was trying to provoke her into a quarrel; it was rude to take snuff in the presence of a lady, but she chose not to complain. William settled back into his seat. “I hope this unfortunate episode will teach you to give up your foolish dreams of a noble alliance. The proper ambition for a woman is to marry a reliable man and raise children of good character who will grow up to be responsible citizens.”

Betsy clenched her teeth and swallowed back a retort disparaging the popular ideal that a woman’s primary duty was to train her children to be good patriots. “William, I am not so bad as you think. I do not grieve for lost trips to Europe or the chance to be presented to Napoleon. It is Lieutenant Bonaparte alone that I miss.”

“I fail to see why you took such a fancy to the man. A sillier coxcomb I never met.”

The insulting words brought an angry flush to Betsy’s face. “He has a warm heart and many good qualities.”

William again folded his arms across his chest. “You astound me. Although I know you to be vain, I have never had reason to doubt your intelligence. How can you defend the man after the letter that Father received?”

“Because I do not believe it.” She slid over to sit directly across from him and leaned forward. “I do not claim that Lieutenant Bonaparte is without fault. He can be too rash and lighthearted. Perhaps he indulged in flirtations that went too far and caused misapprehensions. But he is not wicked. I would stake my life upon that.”

“Then how do you explain the letter? What would it profit anyone to fabricate such lies?”

Betsy clasped her hands beneath her chin and spoke hurriedly, “I lay awake all last night thinking about that, and I think it must come from Monsieur Pichon. He has been very upset about Lieutenant Bonaparte’s refusal to rejoin the navy. I believe that the minister fears the First Consul will hold him accountable, so he wrote the letter to sever the tie he blames for Lieutenant Bonaparte’s sojourn in the United States.”

William rubbed his temple. “I suppose there could be something in that.”

She crossed to sit beside him and placed her hand on his arm. “I know I have little right to ask your help, William. I behaved rudely on the occasion of your first meeting Lieutenant Bonaparte, but I beg you not to hold that against me now that I am in such desperate straits. All my hopes lie in ruins, and I entreat you to be my ally, not my jailer.”

He turned away, and Betsy felt humiliation wash over her. A moment later, however, her brother faced her again. “I admit that at first I believed only your vanity had suffered a blow. I now see that these events have wounded your heart. But Betsy, even though your arguments have merit, I still cannot accept that Lieutenant Bonaparte would be a worthy husband.”

Exhausted by the appeal she had just made, Betsy leaned against his shoulder and whispered, “Will, when I think I may never see him again, I despair of living.”

“Have courage, sister. Time will make this bearable.”

THAT EVENING, THEY took a suite of rooms in an inn and ordered supper to be sent up to them. As they waited, William spread business correspondence on the scratched surface of the gateleg table in the parlor and began to work. Pacing before the rough brick fireplace, Betsy saw that his papers included a letter addressed in their father’s hand to John, so she slipped into her bedroom and wrote a hasty note.

Henriette, I write from northern Virginia. On Saturday, my family received an anonymous letter accusing Lt. Bonaparte of dissipation, so my father ended our engagement and sent me into exile. I believe my destination to be Mount Warren, a plantation on the James River. My family’s indignation burns so hot that I dare not write Bonaparte. I fear that any attempt on our part to meet would cause my father to take even more drastic action. My only hope is that Lt. Bonaparte may find a way to refute the charges and appease my father’s wrath. Forgive me, dear Henriette, for not taking leave of you. Please be so good as to write to me, my sweet and loving friend.

When the maidservant arrived with the food, William stacked his papers and carried them to his bedroom. Through the open door, Betsy saw him remove his coat and roll up his shirtsleeves to wash. She asked the maid quietly, “Could the innkeeper mail a letter for me?”

“Yes, miss.”

“Thank you.” Betsy slipped the woman a coin and the letter addressed to Henriette.

THE LAND BELONGING to the Mount Warren plantation had been in the Nicholas family since 1729. In the 1790s, a small town called Warren sprang up nearby at the mouth of Ballenger’s Creek to accommodate the business generated by the estate. As his fellow Virginian George Washington had before him, Wilson Cary Nicholas believed in using crop rotation to increase agricultural yields, so he grew both wheat and tobacco—although by November, both crops had been harvested and the fields were nothing but stubble.

The Nicholas house was a wide Palladian structure whose two stories featured tall arched windows. A pillared porch topped by a pediment fronted the whole. Because the Senate was in session, Wilson Cary Nicholas was not at home, but his wife Margaret—Samuel Smith’s sister—met Betsy and William in the wide front hall, which had a black-and-white marble floor and sweeping walnut staircase. As Mrs. Nicholas greeted her guests with warmth but some surprise, John Patterson stood silently behind her.

After the formalities of the initial welcome, John’s fiancée Polly stepped forward and offered to lead Betsy up to the guest room. Polly was a pale, blue-eyed girl with the bland prettiness of a porcelain figurine. Betsy glanced back as she followed Polly up the staircase and saw her brothers and Mrs. Nicholas retire to the library. Presumably, they were about to hold a conference about the reason for the unexpected visit. Betsy’s cheeks burned.

“I have not seen you in so long,” Polly gushed as she opened the door to a front bedroom, which had a high four-poster bed with bright floral chintz bed curtains. “From what John has shared of his letters from home, I was certain that next time we met, you would be a married woman.”

Betsy stopped short, feeling as though the other girl had stabbed her. “If only that were so!” She pulled off her hat and threw it onto the bed. Then she crossed to the window and stared down the driveway, wondering if she could find a way to escape back to Baltimore. Could she ride a horse so far, or would she need to steal a carriage?

Polly stepped close beside her. “Betsy, whatever can be wrong? Has Lieutenant Bonaparte cooled in his feelings toward you?”

Betsy shook her head violently. When she felt the unwelcome touch of Polly’s hand on her shoulder, she jerked away and faced the other girl. “No, we remain devoted to each other. But recent events have caused my family to doubt his character, so Father sent me away.”

“Oh.” Polly’s face clouded over. “But surely, you would not want to marry a man of questionable character. Is it not better to find out such things before you have taken an irrevocable step?”

Looking at her future sister-in-law, Betsy sighed. Polly was the kind of young woman most men would consider a perfect wife—firm with children and servants, gracious to guests, conventional in manners, and possessed of a limited imagination. Having to explain herself to such a person was unbearably wearisome. “I believe that Lieutenant Bonaparte has been accused unjustly and the decision to separate us made in haste.”

“Oh, if that is the case, I am sure the truth will out and you will be reunited shortly,” Polly answered with irritating ease. Hearing a noise in the hall, she went to the doorway. “Miss Patterson’s trunk comes in here, Jonah.” A slave wearing the neat clothes of a house servant carried in Betsy’s trunk and set it at the foot of the bed.

Watching Jonah exit, Betsy felt a burst of unfamiliar empathy for him. Never before had she considered how it must feel to be ordered where to live and what to do while under the constant threat of being sold away from the people you love.

Polly broke into her reverie. “I will leave you to unpack. Call me if you need anything.”

“Thank you.” As Polly shut the door, Betsy felt thankful to be alone.

THAT NIGHT AFTER the family retired, Betsy sat at her dressing table writing to Jerome. As her quill raced across the page, Mrs. Nicholas entered her room. The older woman approached, holding a candlestick in her right hand. She peered at the papers before Betsy.

“You might as well throw that missive away, Elizabeth. The servants and children all have strict instructions not to mail any letters you give them.”

“You cannot deprive me of my rights, madam.”

“Do not talk like a fool. Your father has placed you into my keeping and authorized me to lock you in your chamber if you prove willful. And if you do not find our company amenable, you will be sent to an even more remote location.”

Betsy rose and went to the window, wishing she could see whether anyone moved upon the dark lawn. Was it possible that Jerome might come for her by using the information she had sent Henriette? Over her shoulder, she said, “So I am made a prisoner for the crime of love.”

“No, you have been placed in protective custody to save you from your own imprudence.”

Turning, Betsy stared at her hostess. Margaret Smith Nicholas had her brother Samuel’s blue eyes, but they displayed none of the warmth with which Betsy’s uncle habitually regarded her. “Madam, I am fatigued from my long journey. Good night.”

“Think on what I have told you. We are happy to have you stay with us, but you must endeavor to put this error in judgment behind you.” With that, Mrs. Nicholas picked up the letter Betsy had been writing and carried it from the room.

Tears sprang to Betsy’s eyes, not because she had lost the letter, but because this icy woman would read its sentiments. She felt as mortified as if someone had stripped her naked in the public square. Turning back to the dark glass, she rested her forehead on its surface.
I will play the obedient daughter for now. Just long enough to give Jerome time to come for me.

THE NEXT DAY, William left early to return home. In the afternoon, as Polly took drawing lessons from a local master, Betsy went alone into the Prussian blue drawing room. She chose a needlepoint-cushioned, mahogany corner chair by the windows because it afforded a view that extended nearly to the main road. After gazing down the driveway, she took out a man’s pocketbook she had recently begun as a gift for Jerome. Her length of wool measured about seven by sixteen inches. The first step was to cover one side with embroidered Irish stitch, which produced rows of flamelike designs in graduated colors. Because Jerome was French, Betsy had chosen shades of red and blue. Once she finished the embroidery, she would line the piece with linen, bind the edges with tape, and fold the two ends toward the center to make pockets.

Betsy had seen her father’s acquaintances using wallets like this and, knowing Jerome’s love of finery, thought it would make the perfect present to give him when they married. Now, working on it helped sustain her belief that they would see each other again.

The mental absorption required by the pattern served to distract Betsy from her misery. The repetitive nature of forming row upon row of tiny stitches reminded her of a Catholic prayer called the Rosary that Jerome had described as a favorite of his mother’s. Although Betsy was not especially pious, she came to regard her work as a prayer in which, instead of counting beads, she counted stitches, with each one marking a repetition of the plea that God would restore Jerome to her.