The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte by Ruth Hull Chatlien Read Free Book Online

hiccupping and rubbing a fist on his tear-streaked cheek, which displayed an angry red mark. Betsy noticed that Henry’s white gown—the garment that children of both sexes wore for their first three or four years of life—was spattered with splotches of ink.
    “What is wrong?”
    Dorcas smiled wanly at her. “While I was talking to Mammy Sue about Octavius, Henry slipped out of the nursery and ran downstairs. He climbed onto your father’s desk and overturned the inkwell onto some important papers.”
    “And Father blamed you.”
    “He was right to be angry, Betsy. The child has cost him additional work.”
    “I see.” Betsy went to the sideboard, poured herself a cup of tea, and sat at the table. “No doubt he thinks Henry’s accident is my fault because I did not rise early.”
    “He did not say that.”
    That may be, Betsy said to herself, but I will wager he thought it.
    Later that morning when the post arrived, Betsy received a momentous letter—a note from Henriette saying that her father, the Marquis de Poleon, was going to invite the Pattersons to a formal supper. The gathering’s purpose was to introduce leading members of Baltimore society to Lieutenant Jerome Bonaparte.
    Betsy folded up the note and tapped it against her chin as she contemplated the news. Jerome Bonaparte might not be a prince, but he certainly was a handsome young man whose brother was a ruler. Most importantly, he could take her to France. For a moment, Betsy’s confidence faltered as she realized that Lieutenant Bonaparte would compare her to the sophisticated women he had known in Paris. How could she compete against such a standard? She bit her lower lip and then lifted her head in determination. Somehow, you will have to show him that you are just as charming as they are. You will never have another chance like this again.

III
    F OR the next two days, Betsy fretted over what to wear when she was formally presented to Lieutenant Bonaparte. She wanted to demonstrate that even though Baltimore might be a staid community obsessed with commerce, she was a woman of culture. Recalling one of her favorite La Rochefoucauld maxims, she told herself, “To establish ourselves in the world, we do everything to appear as if we were already established.” Yet, despite her resolve to appear sophisticated, she knew that Americans invariably lagged far behind France in fashion.
    Betsy finally decided on a gown that her dressmaker had sewn using a recent French pattern. Made of white muslin in the empire style, it had cap sleeves edged with bands embroidered with the Greek key design in lavender silk. The low-cut round neckline showed off Betsy’s figure to advantage. Her bosom, which had been the envy of many of her schoolmates, was full enough to attract the male eye but not so large as to spoil the graceful line of her gowns.
    Saturday evening, the largest of the Patterson carriages conveyed Betsy, her parents, and her two oldest brothers to the house of Jean-Charles-Marie-Louis-Felix Pascault, the Marquis de Poleon. Like Madame Lacomb, Pascault had been born in France but came to Baltimore after a time in Saint-Domingue. His estate was on the outskirts of the city, several miles northwest of the Patterson home. Their carriage entered the grounds through magnificent French iron gates and then proceeded down a lengthy drive lined with Lombardy poplars. The approach always made Betsy feel as though she had been whisked away from Baltimore to a grand European estate.
    The elegance of the drive was echoed by the two-story Pascault house, built upon a raised basement, about seventy feet wide with six windows across the upper story. The middle section of the house projected slightly to form a central block with double doors topped by a pediment that had a semicircular window. As Betsy entered the wide hall, she saw Henriette standing in the doorway of the library to the right of the entrance.
    Betsy thought her friend looked splendid in a gown