His moist, slightly quivering lips, the slitted, almost accusative eyes all made her nervous. Yet the sketches he turned out one after another were exceedingly lovely, and when he actually began to paint—it was remarkable! The way he brought out the shine of the lace in her bodice, yet still managed to convey the contours of the skin beneath it. And the pink in the ribbon at her waist, echoed by the light flush of her cheeks. It was as if she had sat not in a small, windowless prison cell lit by a single candelabra, but in the finest of drawing rooms with a chandelier blazing overhead. What impressed her most were the eyes: dark and serious, inquisitive even. They were the eyes Eliza saw when she looked in the mirror; sometimes when she inspected the painting she expected them to blink back at her. Any man who could paint like that, and on a cup of whiskey, could not be said to have a problem with alcohol. Could he?
During their sittings, Earl would grill Eliza for news of the latest society gossip, which Eliza would answer as honestly as she could. In fact, everyone in their circle seemed remarkably well-behaved, and Earl teased her that her stories offered little distraction for an incarcerated man. She did notice, however, that whenever she brought up Alex, he changed the subject. “Forgive me if it seems gauche, dear Mrs. Hamilton, but no single man likes to discuss a beautiful woman’s husband. Can you not find me one rich widow I can pine for, or, failing that, an unhappily married socialite I can spirit away?” Eliza half imagined that he meant her, yet there was nothing insinuating in his tone as he spoke the words.
After a month of once- or twice-weekly visits, however, the portrait was nearly finished. In fact, the portrait had seemed done to Eliza for more than a week, and she was under the impression that Earl was drawing out the experience for the sake of the company, or the whiskey.
For her part, even as she disapproved of his excessive drinking, she enjoyed being around him, as he did endeavor to ask her about her childhood, her thoughts on the topics of the day, and her opinions on the changes happening in the city. Eliza greatly missed conversation—Alex was working so hard, he was hardly ever home, and it saddened her to think that Earl knew more—and was more interested—in her day-to-day life than her husband. While Alex had started to come home a little earlier a few weeks ago, and had been extra-attentive, almost as if he were courting her again for a spell, he was back to his old, late-night habits as the case drew nearer. Sometimes she anguished that they would never have time to start a family; for how could they, if they seldom had time together, and when they were in each other’s company, one or both of them were asleep?
Earl was explaining “over-painting” and “varnishes,” and she turned back her attention to the portrait. If she looked closely, it did seem to her that the picture acquired new degrees of luminescence and depth with each visit, but it could also be the power of suggestion.
* * *
IT WAS A clear blustery day in March when she headed to the prison for what she assumed would be the final sitting. The wet sea breeze was quite chilly, yet there was also a hint of freshness to it, a promise of a spring that, though still some weeks away, was definitely on the return. Eliza hurried through the Fields and in through the front entrance of the debtors’ prison, where O’Reilly looked up with a surprised expression.
“Why, Mrs. Hamilton! Funny seeing you again!”
Eliza thought this was a strange thing to say, but let it pass without comment.
“Good afternoon, Mr. O’Reilly. Is Mr. Earl prepared for me?”
O’Reilly looked confused. “I shouldn’t know, ma’am. He wasn’t here when I arrived this morning.”
“What? Did he”—Eliza had no idea why her mind went here—“escape?”
O’Reilly cracked a smile. “Depends what you think of lawyers’ work, I suppose.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Mr. Hamilton sent over papers yesterday directing that Mr. Earl be ‘released on recognizance,’ whatever that means.”
“But—” Eliza’s voice fell off. She had seen Alex for all of five minutes this morning, taking her tea in bed while he dressed, and had made a point of asking him to take down the mirror over the front parlor fireplace in preparation for Mr. Earl’s portrait, which she had told him she was picking up that day.
When she came downstairs, she had been a little hurt to discover that he had left without taking the mirror down, but now her ego was even more bruised. It seemed that not only did her husband not have any time for her these days, he didn’t even have space in his mind for her.
But none of this was O’Reilly’s concern.
“Oh, that’s right!” she said with forced brightness. “How stupid of me. It completely slipped my mind.” She had brought a basket of sandwiches and all but shoved them in O’Reilly’s hands. “Please,” she said. “For you and the less fortunate inmates.” The debtors’ prison didn’t provide food to those incarcerated there, who were dependent upon the attentions of friends and family or the benevolent societies.
“Don’t you want your basket?” O’Reilly called after her as she hurried from the building.
“Keep it,” Eliza said, escaping into the cold sunshine.
* * *
HER MIND WAS awash with feelings as she walked home. Anger first, of course, at Alex’s thoughtlessness, followed by guilt. Because surely her own husband couldn’t be so careless of her time. Of her feelings. She racked her brain, trying to remember if he had said anything about Ralph’s release, but nothing came. As much as she wanted this to be her fault so she could let Alex off the hook, it appeared that he had simply forgotten to tell her.
She let herself into her house in a daze, which is why she didn’t hear the thrum of voices until after they stopped, leaving only the sound of a fussing baby.
Eliza stepped from her hallway into her parlor. Three figures sat there, each so unexpected that she almost didn’t believe her eyes. The first two were Angelica and John Church, while the third was—
“Mr. Earl?”
Before Earl could reply, Angelica had leapt from her chair and thrown her arms around Eliza.
“Oh, we’ve surprised you! I hope our presence is not too unwelcome,” said Angelica.
“No, no,” Eliza said, returning her sister’s embrace warmly. It was wonderful to see Angelica, but startling to see Ralph Earl in her home. “I mean, yes, I am surprised, but no, your presence is not unwelcome at all. And baby Philip,” she said, at last stirring herself to notice her nephew, who was fussing on his father’s lap.
“I presume that our letter didn’t reach Mr. Hamilton?” John said.
“You wrote Alex?” Eliza turned to Angelica.
“John did. He had business to conclude with him stemming from the war.”
John Church’s secret relationship with the Continental army had been revealed following the cessation of hostilities. John had not sought the glory, but Governor Clinton had been on the verge of seizing his property as a loyalist, and the order to reveal his role had come directly from General Washington. Other presumed loyalists had similarly been revealed to be patriots, including Hercules Mulligan, whom Alex had brushed shoulders with in the lead-up to the war in the seventies.
“The Continental Congress still hasn’t paid John what it promised.”
“Oh, all the best people are welching on their debts these days,” Earl said from his chair.
Eliza glanced at him, but she simply couldn’t process his presence in her front parlor yet, and turned back to her sister. “They haven’t paid Alex either. He says it’s because they lack the power to levy taxes—” Eliza shook her head. “But this is hardly the time to discuss fiscal policy. You say John wrote Alex?”
Angelica nodded.
“Perhaps he just neglected to pass along the news,” Ralph Earl said. “Judging from the look on Mrs. Hamilton’s face, I would say that my presence here is as much of a surprise as is yours.”
&nb
sp; Earl’s words were slightly slurred, and Eliza noted the glass on the table beside him, as well as the nearly empty decanter of honey wine Stephen had brought down from Albany. It had been full when she left a little over an hour ago. Perhaps Angelica and John had had some. But glancing at their chairs, she saw no glasses.
Eliza did her best to cover for Alex. “He mentioned that you were being released on, released on recognizance,” she said, pulling the word out and hoping she was pronouncing it correctly. “I assume the, ah, recognizance is ours.”
“Thanks to your husband tirelessly providing me with commissions, and to his keen negotiating skills, I have been able to reduce and pay off my debts. But I am still without ready income, not to mention a place to stay. Your husband was gracious enough to offer me the use of your guest room for lodging, as well as your parlor for painting a few outstanding commissions—first of which will be his own portrait.” He smiled messily at John. “What about you, sir? A family portrait? Or perhaps just one of the little namesake?”
“My name is John Church,” John said testily. Clearly, he had been dealing with Earl’s drunkenness for some time. “Our son is named after my wife and sister-in-law’s illustrious father, General Philip Schuyler.”
“I’m a man of peace myself,” Ralph Earl said, refilling his glass and taking a healthy swig. “Are you sure don’t want some of this decoction? I don’t know what it is, but it is quite satisfying.”
“No, thank you,” Angelica said firmly. “I don’t usually drink before lunch.”
Eliza seized on the last word. “Lunch! I’ll have Rowena prepare you something!”
“Is that your maid?” Angelica said. “She let us in but then promptly ran off to market. She said her larder was nearly empty. We have been attended to by a very cheery lad, although I fear Mr. Earl has been giving him tipples of drink. I think he may have fallen asleep belowstairs.”
“Mr. Earl!” Eliza said, her indignation only half feigned. “Please tell me you have not been giving Simon honey wine to drink? He is but nine years old!”
“The lad said he wanted to be a footman. How on earth can he serve drink if he doesn’t know what he’s offering up?”
Eliza shook her head in exasperation and turned back to her sister. “At any rate, I gather that you have met our houseguest. And where are you and John staying?”
Angelica frowned. “Well, we had written Mr. Hamilton to see if we could perhaps stay here, but I gather from Rowena that you have just the one guest room?”
“Oh! Of course!” Eliza said. “To sleep under the same roof again! It would be so fun! But . . .” She turned and glanced at Earl, who was making goo-goo eyes at the baby, or perhaps at John—his focus was rather glazed. “It’s true, we have just one spare bedroom. There is Alex’s study, though. I’m sure we could procure a bedstead and mattress. But by tonight?” She shook her head in consternation. “When did you write Alex to say that you were coming?”
“It must be three weeks ago now.”
“Three weeks? The mail was spotty when the city was first liberated, but service has been reliable for the past month. How could he not have received it? You wrote to the Stone Street address? He has been so busy. Perhaps it escaped his attention.”
Angelica shrugged in confusion. “It sounds like his practice is going well then?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Eliza said to her sister. “He has more clients than he can handle, but he has yet to take a case to trial, and thus to secure a judgment. And until there are judgments, the payments are”—she waved a hand at Earl—“nominal.”
“A journeyman’s days are never easy,” John said from his chair. “But we all have faith in Alex’s ability. Be patient, Eliza,” he added more pointedly. “Angelica and I barely saw each other for the first three years of our marriage either. And now we return to London, where I aim to stand as a member of Parliament. With the war is over, it is imperative that America and Britain restore normal diplomatic and trade relations. We have too much in common to remain enemies.”
But Eliza barely heard the second half of John’s speech.
“Return to London?” She whirled to Angelica. “Is this true?”
Her sister nodded her head, a curious mixture of sadness and excitement on her face. “It was in John’s letter to Mr. Hamilton. We sail on the tenth.”
“The tenth? Of April? But that is less than a fortnight away! Two weeks, and then I may never—”
“Hush,” Angelica said. “You will see us again, on this side of the ocean and, if you are feeling intrepid, in the Old World as well. My husband may be British, but our son is American, and I mean for him to know the country of his birth.”
Eliza felt like she couldn’t stop shaking her head. The slouching form of Ralph Earl melted into his chair in one corner of the room, while in the other, her brother-in-law dandled her nephew on his knee.
“You must stay here then,” Eliza said. “I have to have as much time as possible with you. If only Peggy could be here as well!”
“We saw her before we left the Pastures, and we have had ample time with her these past few years. And Stephen promises to take her on a European tour sooner rather than later.”
Eliza glanced around the room in desperation, as if a door might suddenly appear, leading to a fully kitted-out extra bedroom.
“If only I’d known you were coming. I would have made arrangements!”
“Do not worry about it, Eliza. John and I can find an inn at which to stay.”
“An inn?” Eliza said, as if Angelica had just announced that she would sleep under a bridge. “This is not how our parents raised us. To turn guests over to strangers. I would sooner sleep in an inn myself than send my eldest sister to one.”
She continued pacing, then pulled up short and turned for the door.
“Eliza?” Angelica said. “Where are you going?”
Eliza barely slowed, feeling that if she stopped to explain herself she wouldn’t be able to go through with her plan. “I will be back shortly. I have an idea!” she announced with more sureness than she felt. She shook her head at Ralph, who appeared to have fallen asleep in his chair. “And please, keep him out of the honey wine. One drooler is enough,” she said, pointing at baby Philip. “Oh, the baby! I never kissed the baby!” And she ran over and planted a wet one on each of his cheeks, put on a wrap, then hurried out the door.
It was but a few minutes’ walk to 3 Wall Street, an elegant town house that stood almost in the shade of City Hall on the corner of Broad Street. Eliza mounted the stone steps and, after catching a breath, rapped the brass knocker firmly. A servant opened the door and showed her into the parlor, where a moment later a handsome man about Alex’s age joined her.
“Why, Mrs. Hamilton, what a pleasant surprise.”
Eliza shook his hand cordially.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Burr. I’ve come to ask a favor.”
22
Burning the Candle at Both Ends
Hamilton Law Office
New York, New York
March 1784
Alex didn’t realize how late it was until his lamp sputtered out and he was plunged into darkness. One minute his pen was scratching across a sheet of paper, the next he was engulfed in inky blackness, with only the faint smell of smoke letting him know that he hadn’t been whisked out of this world completely. Still, he was so disoriented that he found himself frozen in his chair, half afraid to move, as if a gap might have opened up in the floor, ready to swallow him up.
I have been working too hard, he said to himself. I need a good night’s sleep.
At length, he reached for his desk drawer, pulled it open, and rooted around inside until his fingers brushed against a box of spills. He was lucky to light it from the fireplace, then used its light to find the candlestick that sat on one of his bookshelves. He lit it, and a thin glow fille
d the center of the room, though the corners of the small room remained steeped in darkness. He opened another drawer reflexively and pulled out a bottle of lamp oil, reached for the empty lamp, then paused. He retrieved his watch from his pocket and squinted at the tiny hands.
Could it really be 11:08 p.m.? The last time he remembered looking at his watch it was just after 6:00. He thought of Eliza, all alone at home. She would be asleep by the time he got there. She never said anything, of course, his stalwart angel, but he knew she missed him, and he did miss her. So much.
A survey of his desktop told him his watch wasn’t lying. Stacks of paper were everywhere, inches high. He must have answered a hundred letters today. One prince, three ambassadors, two governors, five lieutenant governors, and fourteen congressmen numbered among his correspondents, along with dozens of current and former servicemen and twice their number of bankers and lawyers. Some of the notes were only a few lines long, but others ran to three or four tightly scrawled pages. Everything from condolence letters to tariff negotiations to banking proposals, the bulk of it ancillary to his legal work, but necessary if he was to secure the kind of well-connected, well-heeled clients he wanted in the long term. Necessary, too, if his point of view was to be heard in the formation of the new government, and the new country.
But the workload was taking its toll. This morning as he combed his hair he noticed his brush was littered with broken strands, and the dark circles under his eyes looked as if Ralph Earl had painted them on. But most unnerving were the effects on memory. He would get so focused on whatever was in front of him that he would forget about everything else. Even now, as he packed up his office, he found himself nagged by the feeling that he was neglecting something important. Something to do with Eliza, which made it even worse.
Eliza . . .
As he stepped out into the chilly evening, his mind filled with a picture of his wife. After a frenetic winter season of party after party, in which the young couple had found themselves embraced by both the best families and the most powerful politicians and businessmen in New York, life had quieted down, at least on the social front. But even as their party calendar emptied, Alex’s workload grew. His first court dates for the Childress case came and went, largely procedural affairs, although Aaron Burr made it clear that the state would show no quarter. Given Caroline’s precarious financial state, Alex had thought it might be best, for her sake, to try for a settlement. If he were to push the case to trial, he could set a legal precedent that would score a victory for all of his former loyalist clients—sixteen now and counting—in one fell swoop. But a trial could take months, even years to secure, given the backed-up state of Governor Clinton’s courts. Indeed, Burr, sensing the plaintiff’s desperation, had already begun filing delays in an attempt to bleed her dry. It was a clear stalling tactic, but just because it was obvious didn’t mean it wouldn’t work. The law was very open-minded that way. It didn’t care if your strategy was sophisticated or sloppy. It only cared about results.
Love & War Page 22
