All for One
Page 3
“No, no,” Alex said, “you are much too busy with your regular duties.” He offered her a wan smile. “I know you miss him, but think how happy he must be in the open air.”
Rowena did her best to smile back. “I received a letter from him yesterday—Miss Jane Beekman was nice enough to scribe it for him—that says he is in the saddle every day. It is like an Eden to him, but a mother can’t help but miss her only child.”
“Yes, well,” Alex said, wanting to be understanding, but also not wanting to lose a hundred pounds in business, which, among other things, paid his grieving servant’s salary, “perhaps you can visit him tomorrow. Eliza, Mr. Schuyler, and I can fend for ourselves, you know.”
“Oh, I don’t like the thought of someone else in my kitchen. I have things just so, you know.”
“No need to worry about that. Mrs. Hamilton’s many virtues do not extend to the culinary arts. We shall probably just take our meals at the Stork and Whistle.”
The Stork and Whistle was an inn on Fulton Street, and the only establishment Rowena liked her master and mistress to patronize, because the woman who ran the kitchen was a friend of hers. “Oh, Glynis will be glad to have you! And thank you, Mr. Hamilton! I do so appreciate it!”
Rowena disappeared, and Alex ran upstairs to fetch Johnny. He was shocked to find him once again facedown on the bed, though at least he was fully clothed.
“John Bradstreet Schuyler!”
John sat up with a start, glancing nervously in the direction of his chamber pot. “What, what? Are the redcoats back? Point me to those lobsterbacks and I’ll shoot the lot of ’em!”
Alex couldn’t tell if Johnny had been dreaming or if he was having him on. “If you don’t mind,” he said. “Pull a brush through that hair, grab your hat, and let us be off. Daylight’s burning!”
“I find that the day gets on just fine whether I deign to notice it or not,” Johnny said as he stumbled out of his bed, pulled his fingers through his unruly dark locks, and clapped a hat over them. “Lead on, General.”
* * *
• • •
BRIGHT SUNLIGHT GREETED them as they walked out onto Wall Street, which was bustling with pedestrians, carriages, and men on horseback going about their business.
“Egads!” John said, pulling his hat lower over his eyes. “Are we in the south of New York or the south of Italy? My God, that sun is bright!”
“I find that the same sun shines on New York as shines on Albany,” Alex couldn’t resist saying. “Tell me, Johnny, is it possible that you are a little the worse for wear this morning?”
“I beg of you, please, call me John. No one called ‘Johnny’ can command the respect of his peers, let alone of the fairer sex.”
Alex rolled his eyes even as a smile crept onto his face.
“Now, then,” John continued. “If you are asking if I drank too much last night, the answer is of course not. I am no wastrel. If you are asking if I feel like the Revolutionary War is still being fought inside my head, though, then the answer is yes.” He squinted in pain. “It is a naval battle, with lots of cannon and rough seas to boot.”
Alex had to chuckle at the boy’s ingenuity. “We did celebrate your arrival a little too heartily, I’m afraid. Do not think every evening is quite so festive in the Hamilton house.”
“What? I loved it!” John said. “A couple nippers of sherry and I’ll be good to go for another round.”
Alex shook his head. He didn’t remember little Johnny being quite so . . . boisterous when he was young. But then, he himself wasn’t a rich man’s son. When he was John’s age he had already moved from Nevis to St. Croix and back again, been abandoned by his father, orphaned by his mother, and sponsored for a life-changing scholarship to the northern colonies by William Livingston, the governor of New Jersey. Though he knew little about the world back then, he understood that he was on his own, and that he and he alone would determine whether he succeeded or failed. John had better learn some discipline soon, Alex thought, or he would find himself back in Albany sooner than he realized.
Oh God, he thought, I sound so old.
Just then they passed a pair of girls walking the opposite direction. Servants likely, to judge from their simple gray garments. The pair were about John’s age, and dressed lightly on account of the day’s warmth, with only shawls and lace sleeves covering their shoulders. John all but stared as they walked past, then turned and watched as they walked away. “Somebody call a policeman, because they just stole my heart!”
“Ouch,” Alex said. “That line hurts me more than your headache hurts you.”
John laughed. “I’ve been told I come on a bit strong, but what can I say? I’m a lover of the ladies. Always have been.”
“Always? You’re seventeen. How much loving have you done?”
“I know Albany isn’t exactly New York City, but we still have our fair share of misses. As I recall, you found your own in our neck of the woods.” He patted Alex on the shoulder as though they were a pair of war veterans reminiscing about their days under fire. “Never you fear, brother, I’m well experienced.”
“I’m less afraid of your lack of experience than its opposite. Do I need to be concerned here, John? I am entrusted with your protection, after all. It is hard for me to imagine just how . . . disappointed General Schuyler would be if I wrote him to say that you had to get married in a hurry.”
“The only thing you need to worry about is the trail of broken hearts I plan on leaving in my wake. But don’t you fret, Alex. No one’s going to be throwing their noose around me before I’m ready.”
Alex grunted.
“But seriously, how do you stand it?” John said, making eyes at another young woman across the street. “I mean, this city is a virtual banquet table of female delights.”
“I’m not certain you’ve noticed but I am married to your sister. ‘For all time.’”
“Right. But still. We’re men, right? It’s in our nature to—”
Alex pulled up short. “If you think I won’t wash your mouth out with soap right here on the street, young man, you are sorely mistaken.”
John’s voice was guileless when he answered, but there was a wicked gleam to his eye. “You carry soap with you when you walk around?”
Alex took John’s head in his hands and turned it to a shop window.
SOAP
ALL TYPES
INCL. LYE
“This is New York. You can get anything you want, anyplace you want it, anytime you want it. Including lye,” he added in a threatening tone.
John just stared at the sign for a moment, as though he were having trouble reading. Then he laughed. “Fine, fine. I was just teasing. I’m new here, remember? It’s all a bit overwhelming.”
John affected a naïve tone, but Alex suspected it was just an act to placate him. Still, anything to get the boy to stop talking about women as though they were side dishes. John was clearly a self-possessed boy, and a smart one, but he had a lot to learn if he was going to make it in New York. Alex wasn’t sure if he was prepared to be the one to teach him, but if he didn’t who would?
“It’s but a few minutes more to the college,” he said. “Come, let us hurry so we’re not late.”
* * *
• • •
AFTER BEING CLOSED for seven years due to the revolution and the occupation of New York City, the former King’s College had reopened as Columbia College in the state of New York just last year. The story had it that when Mayor James Duane learned that DeWitt Clinton—the son of Revolutionary hero James Clinton and the nephew of Governor George Clinton—was going to university at the College of New Jersey in Princeton, he persuaded the university to reopen so that New York wouldn’t lose one of its first citizens to a neighboring state. With help from the governor (who had appointed himself chancellor of the r
eopened school, a largely honorary position, though it came with a nice stipend, which Clinton, as governor, had awarded himself), the university’s handsome Park Place campus was cleaned up, and the school opened its doors to nine students—the inaugural class of 1798, which included his nephew DeWitt. John Bradstreet Schuyler was to be part of the class of 1799, which had swelled to ten.
The campus was on a lovely bluff west of City Hall Park overlooking the Hudson River. Three acres of grass and trees, half wild after nearly a decade of neglect under British occupation, surrounded a single long, low building, nearly a city block long, a tall cupola rising out of its center like a domed vault.
John whistled as it came into view. “That is a big building,” he said.
“Eventually, it is to be complemented by three more, forming a quadrangle,” Alex said, pointing at the future buildings’ locations.
“A quadrangle, you say?” John said. “Is that like a fancy rectangle?”
Alex started to explain the concept, then saw the look on John’s face.
“You are so serious,” the young man said. “We should take this act onstage. We’d make quite the comic duo.”
“I do hope you’ll curtail the jokes while we meet with Mr. Livingston. First impressions are rather important.”
“Oh, I’ve met Brock a couple times. I think he was at Peggy’s wedding, although who knows? There had to have been fifty Livingstons there, and I was well sauced.”
Alex could hardly believe his ears. The Schuylers were such a reserved family, full of quiet probity. True, the elder girls had something of a mischievous streak about them, but it was all done in innocent fun. Whereas it appeared little Johnny Schuyler had grown up to become a positive Lothario.
Alex pulled up short on the path leading to the College Hall’s front entrance and placed his hand on John’s shoulder. In his head he’d imagined that he’d be looking down on the boy’s face, but he was disconcerted to discover that his young brother-in-law was a good inch taller than him.
“Forgive me for speaking bluntly,” he said. “But I must insist that that when we take our meeting with Treasurer Livingston you avoid any mention of inebriated evenings or, or romantic adventures. If you are unconcerned with your own reputation, at least think of your esteemed family’s.”
He made his voice as stern as he could. There, he told himself, that should settle the boy down.
John looked at him incredulously. Then, to Alex’s shock, he doubled over in a fit of laughter so violent that Alex thought the boy was going to fall to the ground.
“Oh my Lord, you’ve been a lawyer too long!” John managed to spit out between laughs. “‘Curtail any mention’? ‘Inebriated evenings’? Is this how you wooed my sister? I don’t know how she controls herself.”
Alex started to protest, but John put a hand up. “Alex. Please. I’m John Bradstreet Schuyler, eldest son of General Philip Schuyler.” He passed his hand down his body, pointing out the excellent cut and fabric of his suit as well as his lean but sturdy physiognomy and aristocratic face, with its strong jaw and elegantly narrow nose. Even his hair, so cavalierly combed, managed to look debonair.
John flashed a wide grin at Alex. “Henry Brockholst Livingston doesn’t stand a chance against me.”
“Wait,” Alex said. “Treasurer Livingston’s first name is Henry? As in the third son of Governor William Livingston of New Jersey?”
“You didn’t know?” John once again doubled over in laughter. “That’s hilarious!”
“He was already at school when I first arrived in the north and took up residence with the Livingstons. They always referred to him as Henry.”
“Well, it’s Brock now.”
“Somehow I doubt he goes by—”
“Brock!” John interrupted. “Hello! Brock!” he yelled at a dark-robed figure trotting up the path.
The man turned. “Johnny boy! Is that you? Excellent! I was afraid I was late.”
As he approached them, Alex saw that the man’s wig was slightly askew on his head, his cheeks unshaven, and one of his collars on his shirt flapped above the top of his robe. All in all, he looked nearly as disheveled as John.
The two clapped each other in a hug. “Good to see you again!” Brockholst said. “I can’t tell you how happy I was to learn that you’d opted for Columbia. Just between you and me, DeWitt Clinton can’t hold his liquor. I need someone who knows how to have fun.”
“Brocky, this is—” John began.
“Oh, I know this knave,” Brockholst said with a leer. “Alexander Hamilton, who tried to woo my sister Susannah once upon a time. Or was it Catherine? Or was it both of them? Better lock up your sisters, John,” he added with a wink.
“Too late,” John said. “He already snagged Eliza.”
“Another good one off the market,” Brock said. “Never you fear, John, there are still plenty of lovely lasses left in the city for both of us.”
“‘Lovely lasses left.’ It sounds like the beginning of a beautiful story,” said John. And, throwing their arms around each other, John and Brock sauntered breezily toward the building, heads close together in conspiratorial whispers.
Alex had no choice but to hurry after them.
3
A Stranger in the House
The Hamilton Town House
New York, New York
June 1785
Meanwhile, back at 57 Wall Street, Eliza lingered in bed for much of the morning, catching up on her correspondence. For the past several months, she had been working to facilitate the placement of several orphans into good homes or churches. She saw her husband’s face in every orphan and was determined that no child would be abandoned as he had been. She would have loved to take in each and every one of them into her own home, childless as they were, but decided it would unfair to choose just one or two to save personally, and so she devoted herself to all of them.
New York City lacked both a foundling society and an orphanage, and too many poor children whose parents had been taken from them by disease or war ended up fending for themselves on the streets if someone didn’t take them in. Eliza had only last week placed a six-year-old girl with a lovely family who ran a prosperous farm not far from the Beekmans, and now there was a sweet lad of just four whose mother, a fallen woman unable to identify the boy’s father, had been taken away by the pox at the tender age of twenty-two.
As it happened, Eliza knew that Michael and Prudence Schlesinger, a young couple she had met in Trinity Church, had lost their own son to fever half a year ago. She did not think that Augustus, as the orphaned lad was grandly named, could ever take the place of their Joshua, but surely, she wrote to them, this was the Lord’s way of helping them through their grief? The boy was currently staying in the church’s rectory, and on her visit there she had him dip his hands in watercolor paint and impress his prints on a sheet of parchment, which she had sent to the Schlesingers. They were so tiny, so delicate—how could they fail to melt Pru’s and Michael’s hearts?
She was aware it was a stopgap plan. In a city as large as New York, Eliza knew there were far more foundlings and orphans than were being brought to her attention, and eventually a home would have to be built for them, so they could be fed and clothed and educated in comfort until they were placed with families of their own. But for now, if she could match young Gus with Pru and Michael, she would consider her morning not entirely wasted.
As a precaution—she didn’t want to risk becoming more ill or infecting her friends—she sent her regrets to the Van Cortlandts, telling them that she wasn’t feeling well and wasn’t up to dinner that evening. (In Simon’s absence, she had to send Rowena with the note, along with her letter to the Schlesingers, which didn’t please her cook at all. An hour later came Joanna Van Cortlandt’s gracious response: “I completely understand, my dear. Take a day in bed—I find it always helps!”)
But Eliza was too used to activity to pass an entire day in bed, and thankfully, when she woke after noon she felt refreshed. Stirring herself, she arose, washed, dressed, and decided to take herself to market on Rowena’s behalf (and also to avoid another batch of not-quite-right eggs or questionable lamb). Rowena was getting ready to head out when Eliza came into the kitchen and told her cook that she would do the shopping herself. Though Rowena protested that she always preferred to choose her ingredients herself, it was clear she was feeling overwhelmed without her son’s aid and appreciated her mistress’s offer.
“If you go the stall on the corner of Beaver and Broad, the man there will kill the chicken for you, so you don’t have to do it yourself. If you tell him Rowena sent you, he might even pluck it for you.”
“Oh, Rowena, you flirt!” Eliza teased. “I am perfectly capable of plucking a chicken.”
Rowena practically guffawed. “You’ll forgive me, Mrs. Hamilton. You are a hale lass for a gentlewoman, but you are barely capable of plucking out a wig, let alone a chicken.”
“You slander me, Rowena,” Eliza said, but she knew her cook was right.
Though she left the town house with a bounce in her step, two hours later she was back, sapped of energy. Eliza entered through the kitchen, dropped her baskets on a table, then made her way upstairs to the rear parlor and collapsed into its softest chair. There was a volume of Richardson on the side table—Alex was reading it—and she picked it up with the intention of peeking in, but when Alex came home around eight, he found her fast asleep in the chair with the book closed on her lap.