A swarm of noise assailed his ears.
“I heard Mr. Burr’s closing oratory went on for more than an hour!”
“That’s nothing! Mr. Hamilton spoke for nearly two!”
“Mr. Burr may be the finest lawyer of his generation. His arguments cut through the sterile logic of the law and went straight to the heart!”
“Hamilton was magnificent! Thrice he was interrupted by standing ovations! People were weeping in their chairs! The judge himself clapped at the end!”
Apparently, word of the trial had reached the party.
Alex squinted against the bright lights. A swarm of odors assaulted his nose, from the delectable smells of Rowena’s cooking (now sadly decimated, to the consternation of his empty stomach) to the cloying perfumes of dozens of ladies and gentlemen bedecked in the finest brocades and jacquards. He did not realize his house could hold this many people. He wondered that the floor didn’t collapse beneath their weight. But his eyes ignored the throng as he searched for one face in particular. The only face that mattered.
“He’s here!” a voice called then. “It’s the man of the hour!”
The voice turned out to be John Church, who grabbed him in a bear hug. “Well done, Alex! You did it!”
Suddenly, other hands were grabbing him. John Rutherford. Gouverneur Morris. Even the painter Ralph Earl. Before he knew it, he was being hoisted in the air on their shoulders.
“Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray!”
Alex rocked back and forth on the shoulders, tilting his head slightly to keep from knocking against the ceiling. So intense was the bouncing that he could not make out the faces in the room, which seemed like so many glazed masks beneath their powder and rouge and wigs. But then—at last!—he spied a single face in the front parlor, seeming to float in the air.
It was Eliza.
Her hair was a silver halo above her head, made all the more ethereal by a gauzy veil draped over it. Her skin was smooth as the flesh of a peach, with just a spot of color at cheeks and lips. Her eyes were two dark coals gleaming out at the world with untold depths of intelligence and strength, her mouth set in the very tiniest of smiles, as if she reserved judgment on all who passed beneath her gaze. She was not just the most beautiful woman Alex had ever seen. She was the most regal.
“My darling,” he said, as if she could hear him across two rooms.
“Yes?” a voice said at his feet. “Alex?”
He looked down, and there she was again: Eliza, only this time she was in a pale green gown and tighter, unveiled wig. Her face was decidedly pinker, too, as if she had been dancing for hours.
He looked back up. Only now did he realize that the first image had been Ralph Earl’s painting.
I get to live with her for the rest of my life, he said to himself in astonishment. He had never realized life could be so fulfilling. And then, looking down at his flesh-and-blood wife, he thought: This beautiful creature is who I get to live with for the rest of my days. No painting could ever compare.
His wife threw her arms around him and he returned the embrace. I get to live with the real woman and the portrait, he said to himself. A more fortunate man has never lived.
“My darling,” he said, looking right into her beautiful brown eyes, the eyes that had so bewitched him from the beginning. “It is perfection. And I am sorry . . .”
“Shush,” said Eliza. “It is enough to have you home for dinner for once.”
Vaguely, he knew there were many people in the room, guests, dignitaries, the most important people in New York, but to Alex, there was only one face, one person, who was the most important. He ushered her into a private corner.
“I want to focus on our family,” he said, leaning to whisper in her ear. “I believe it is about time we were serious about that endeavor.”
Eliza colored prettily. “It is my dearest wish as well,” she replied, melting into his arms.
He kissed her then, because he had to have her right then, wanted nothing more than for the two of them to be alone and putting every effort into this new and exciting project.
They were still kissing when a voice interrupted, rising above the din. The Hamiltons reluctantly pulled away from each other.
“Well, there he is now. The man of the hour. Or should I say, the traitor of the hour?”
Alex turned as the crowd parted like the Red Sea to reveal not Moses but Pharaoh, which is to say, the corpulent, gold-clothed figure of Governor Clinton.
“Well, I hope you’re proud of yourself, young man,” the governor said, or spat. “You, who served as the right hand of General Washington himself! Providing aid and comfort to the enemy! You are lucky that I don’t have you strung up. But I’ll see you disbarred from ever practicing law in New York State if it’s the last thing I do.”
Alex stood there, tongue-tied. After the exertions of the day, taking care of Caroline in her weakened condition, the run home, the cheers and smells and jostling, and Eliza’s painting. Eliza . . .
He turned to his wife, and grabbed her hand.
“Always hiding behind a woman’s skirts,” Clinton jeered. “That’s what they’ll say about Alexander Hamilton in the history books, if they bother to record him at all. First, he uses the plight of a silly barmaid to advance his own loyalist cause, and then, he runs home to hide behind his wife, whose family name is far more distinguished than his own will ever be. I expect Philip Schuyler will be none too pleased when he learns what kind of man you’ve hitched yourself, too,” he said to Eliza directly.
Alex tried to open his mouth but still his jaw refused to move. Governor Clinton glowed and shook like a torch in the breeze threatening to set his house on fire, yet after a full day of brilliant debate in court, capped by a scintillating final argument that had, as someone said, moved people to tears and applause, Alex found himself unable to think of a single word to shut up this ugly boor.
Fortunately, he didn’t have to.
“Why, George Clinton!” Eliza said in a voice that was less angry than amused and belittling. “My father has counted you as a friend, or at any rate a colleague, for more than thirty years. If he knew you were speaking to his daughter in this way, he would call you out!”
Governor Clinton smirked. “I do beg your pardon, Mrs. Hamilton,” he said in the least sincere voice Alex had ever heard.
“Oh, shut up, you horrible toad,” Eliza said, her voice less agitated than nonchalant, as if Clinton were not worth the trouble. “I care not a whit what you think of me, and neither does my husband. Now, you listen to me. This man whose hand I hold and whose ring I share put his life on the line for this country over and over, and for anyone to call him a traitor is not only laughable but traitorous in itself. The United States of America is not what you would have it be, sir,” she continued. “Nor is it what I would have it be, or Alex, or anyone in this room. It is a shared space and a shared vision, and only when we learn that our different points of view give us a special strength will we tap into the full potential of our unique, united sensibilities. Only then will we make good on the debt we owe to the brave men—yes, and women—who fought for our freedom. And until you can get that through that unruly head of hair, I invite you to shut your mouth—or go stuff it with food, since you are obviously far better at eating than speaking.”
Stunned silence filled the room. Then from the front parlor came the sound of a titter. The crowd turned to see old Pieter Stuyvesant laughing so hard his wooden leg pounded the floor.
“Oh my stars! That is the best show I’ve seen in ages!” And he broke into peals of glee.
Within seconds, the whole house was shaking with laughter. A dejected George Clinton slunk off with his tail between his legs, but somehow managed to end up at the buffet table, where he did indeed begin stuffing his mouth with food.
Alex turned to his wife. “And they say I am the orato
r.”
“They will say it for the next hundred years, and even more, if I have anything to do with it,” Eliza said. Her face was shining with love and pride. “You won, Alex! You won!”
“Well, it was a split decision, really,” Alex answered honestly. “The Baxter Street building was returned to the Le Beau family, but Judge Smithson ordered the state to pay Mrs. Childress damages in the amount of fifteen hundred for lost investment and—”
Eliza put a finger on his lips. “A victory! You won.”
Alex kissed her on the lips. “We won, my darling. And we always will, as long we stay by each other’s side.”
“Always,” she said with a smile. “Come now, let’s take our bows.” Eliza waved a hand at the dancing, drinking, swirling mass before them. “We’re a hit!” Then she turned to him, and this time it was her voice that was soft in his ear. “But all I ever needed was you.”
In answer, he kissed her again with all his heart and soul, his passion for his wife as keen as on the first day they’d met, and whatever flaws and transgressions lay on the rocky road ahead of them, he knew that she was right: They could meet every obstacle and temptation in their path as long as they were by each other’s side, in love and war, failure and victory, poverty and prosperity, until the curtain closed on their story.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
While this story is inspired by and mostly based on historical fact, the biggest departure of course that anyone can easily discover and point out to the author (but please don’t!) is that Alex and Eliza had children almost immediately after their marriage. So please forgive this young-adult author for wanting to keep them newlyweds for a little while longer and not deal with the reality of children just yet.
Aside from that, Part One hews closely to historical record. Alex and Eliza did move around a lot during the first three years of their marriage and lived at the Pastures after their wedding.
Alex famously strong-armed Washington into giving him a command at Yorktown, and Laurens did serve under him, as did the other officers. Fort descriptions and such are also fairly accurate.
Eliza was at the Pastures when her mother had Kitty, her last baby.
The story about the British raid on the Schuyler house is widely reported, but no one knows if it is true or not. Supposedly, it was Peggy who confronted the invaders, as Eliza retreated upstairs with her infant son, Philip. Aaron Burr was not the officer who checked on them afterward, although he did move to Albany around that time and I thought it would be fun to place him in the scene.
Part Two is much more fictional, however the names of all the society people, as well as their marriages, houses, and anecdotes attributed to them (like the Beekmans’ greenhouse and Mrs. Murray’s invitation to General Howe for tea so George Washington could escape) are real.
Alex and Eliza lived at 57 Wall Street. Aaron and Theodosia Burr lived down the street at 3 Wall. They were neighbors!
Eliza did sit for her well-known portrait by Ralph Earl in debtors’ prison. And Mr. Earl did stay with the Hamiltons after he got out jail.
Alex was known for defending former loyalists from prosecution by the government of Governor George Clinton, and he frequently faced off against Aaron Burr. However, Caroline Childress and her trial are completely fictional.
What is true is that Alex and Governor Clinton were decidedly not fans of each other. And I imagine our strong-willed Eliza would have come to her husband’s defense in all and any social and political skirmishes.
They were a good team, and their story—at least my part in telling it—does not end here.
Watch out for the third book in the Alex & Eliza series next spring!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book would not exist without the love of my family, my family of friends, and my Penguin family. Thank you especially to my editors, Jennifer Besser and Kate Meltzer, President Jen Loja, Vice President Jocelyn Schmidt, PR maven Elyse Marshall, marketing stars Emily Romero and Erin Berger, and copy editor extraordinaire Anne Heausler. Thank you to my 3Arts family, Richard Abate and Rachel Kim. Thank you to my family-family, the DLCs (Mom, Chit, Christina, Steve, Aina, Nicholas, Josey, Seba, and Marie), Friday Night Taco Club & Hollywood Beach division (Jill, Cole, Tiff, Heidi, Andy, Tony, Carol and all the taco and basketball kids!), the Terrible Trio (Raf & Marg & um, me), and my YALLs of Fest and West. Thank you to my dear readers, loyal and new. Mike and Mattie are thanked at the beginning of this book and at the end, for I begin and end with them.
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Love & War Page 28
