Alex and Eliza--A Love Story

by Melissa de la Cruz

  The mention of General Washington had not endeared Eliza’s plan to Mrs. Schuyler. General Schuyler’s court-martial was only recently completed, and even though he’d been exonerated of all wrongdoing in the Battle of Ticonderoga, she still felt that the military trial ought not to have taken place at all. Indeed, General Washington had gone so far as to write General Schuyler a letter of congratulations on his acquittal, but Mrs. Schuyler was unmoved. She was a steady woman, and slow to ire, but once one had earned her wrath, her forgiveness was hard to come by.

  Almost as an afterthought Mrs. Schuyler had warned Eliza, “I suppose that foul Colonel Hamilton will be there as well.”

  Colonel Hamilton had served as clerk to the prosecution during the trial. He had been studying to be a lawyer before the war broke out, and though he had left school to serve the revolution, he was still competent enough in the ways of the law and the military that he had been called upon to liaise between the court and General Washington’s office. It was yet another honor for one so young, but clerking for the prosecutor had supposedly caused him great pain, given his regard for the Schuyler family and his belief in General Schuyler’s innocence. He had written as much in a letter to General Schuyler, but Eliza’s father insisted on his presence. If General Washington was not going to preside over the farce of a trial, then he wanted someone close to the commander in chief to attend, so that Washington would be fully apprised of all that had gone on, and would feel that much more shame at capitulating to the political whims of the Congress.

  Eliza thought to remind her mother of all this, then decided against it. Not that Eliza had given any thought to Colonel Hamilton’s presence in Morristown, nor did she have any opinion as to the high level of his intelligence. Not at all. Besides, recalling the past would only cause Mrs. Schuyler to get her back up.

  But to her surprise, her mother had relented rather quickly. She saw the silver lining in Eliza’s plan. “There will be any number of unmarried officers in Morristown. Perhaps you will meet a suitable bachelor to replace the one who courted you so diligently and turned away.”

  Her mother was talking about Major John André, the British officer who had strived to win her hand. Eliza had been a bit infatuated with him for a while, but in the end had turned down his suit. Perhaps she was too much of a patriot to accept the man, unlike Angelica, who was holding steady with her Mr. Church, despite his having left her and the country without proposing. Almost three years after her illustrious ball, Mrs. Schuyler was irritated to find her three oldest daughters still unmarried and mentioned this unfortunate state of affairs often.

  “Oh, Mama,” Eliza said, running off to pack.

  ELIZA PULLED BACK the curtain again and peered out. She felt Mrs. Jantzen’s glare and ignored it. The snowy fields and barren trees looked no different from those of ten minutes earlier, and soon enough she let the curtain drop of her own accord.

  “I wonder how much farther,” she couldn’t help but say aloud.

  Mrs. Jantzen opened her mouth for a retort, but was caught up by a jarring thump, followed by an even louder crack.

  “Whoa!” came the faint voice of the coachman. “Whoa there!”

  The carriage lurched to a stop and then slowly, with a splintering sound as of a branch breaking off a tree, the right rear of the compartment sank slowly, heavily down, until it was some three feet lower than the left. Eliza had to grip both sides of the carriage to keep from falling upon Mrs. Jantzen, who was lying on her back, her legs sticking straight up in the air and protruding from the ruffled yardage of her petticoats and bloomers.

  “What on earth!” Mrs. Jantzen exclaimed, desperately trying to right herself, but having little more success than a turtle flipped on its shell.

  Eliza couldn’t decide which was the more frightening prospect: falling on Mrs. Jantzen, or being shrouded in that terrible perfume, but she wasn’t about to find out. She toed the older lady’s skirts aside as delicately as she could, spread her feet, and braced them against the opposite seat.

  “Driver!” she called out. “Driver, there seems to have been some kind of . . . tilt.”

  The left-hand door of the carriage flew open, and the bearded face of Mr. Vincent appeared. “Begging your pardon, my ladies,” he called out in his thick Irish brogue. “I’m afraid we’ve broken a wheel. Allow me—”

  He reached a meaty hand into the carriage, wrapped it around Eliza’s arm, and pulled her from the skewed compartment with no more effort than if she’d been a weaning puppy. The left side of the carriage was some five feet above the ground, and once free of the narrow door, Eliza had no choice but to jump down.

  The road was frozen hard as stone, and sharp, hot pains pierced her feet as she landed. Convinced her daughter was likely to meet eligible bachelors along the trip, Mrs. Schuyler had insisted she wear fancy shoes of thin embroidered cotton—hardly proof against a New Jersey winter. The shoe heels were a full inch tall. Their thin soles gave way almost immediately to the chill of the frozen roadway.

  She shook her feet to warm them, looking up just as the coachman lowered himself into the carriage to help Mrs. Jantzen. Eliza had once seen a pair of fighting squirrels chase each other into a pumpkin that had been hollowed out to hold a candle. The pumpkin had shook like a kettle on the boil as the animals tore at each other inside its orange shell, until suddenly the top burst off and one of the squirrels flew into the air and dashed off, leaving the other one poking from the cracked gourd. As the coachman attempted to free Mrs. Jantzen, the tilted carriage vibrated with nearly the same violence as that long-ago pumpkin.

  The stranded lady’s yelps and squeaks pierced the otherwise silent afternoon, interrupted by the coachman’s half-desperate requests. “If you would just hold still, m’lady . . . Beg pardon, m’lady, but if you want to be liberated you will have to allow me to place my hand just there . . . Well, I’m sorry, dearie, but I thought that was just swaddling!”

  Popping like a bubble, Mrs. Jantzen was fully ejected from the open door and rolled over and off the side of the carriage. Eliza rushed forward to help, only to be thrown aside by the bulk of the older woman’s skirts as she sprawled onto the ground.

  “My ankle!” the older lady screamed in pain. “It’s broken!”

  The coachman appeared and, despite his ample build, jumped nimbly to the ground. “Forgive me again, m’lady,” he said, unceremoniously hefting her skirt and reaching for her ankle.

  “Sir!” Mrs. Jantzen protested. “I must remind you that I am a married woman, and a lady!”

  The coachman ignored her. His nimble fingers slipped inside her booted ankle and squeezed tenderly. Mrs. Jantzen winced and pulled away, but he held her in place. “It’s not broken. Probably just a sprain. Best keep the boot on to hold in the swelling. We’re only five miles from Morristown, but this does complicate things.”

  “Complicate things! I shall in all likelihood lose my leg!”

  Eliza couldn’t resist. “My uncle John is an excellent physician. And I shall be honored to hold your hand while he cuts.”

  “Now, now, ladies, let’s not get carried away,” Mr. Vincent said, though he grinned at Eliza out of view of Mrs. Jantzen.

  He looked over at the ruined coach wheel. It was thoroughly shattered.

  “No fixing that. I’m afraid we’ll have to ride.”

  “But there are only two horses!” Mrs. Jantzen protested. “And no saddles! And we ladies in skirts!”

  “Aye, there’s that.” He pondered a moment. “This will require some rope.”

  A half hour later, Mrs. Jantzen lay awkwardly across one of the horses, tied onto it like a saddlebag and covered in a voluminous fur, so that she looked like a bear carcass being brought in from a hunt.

  “This is most indecorous,” she said. “I assure you that you will not be receiving a tip at the end of this journey.”

  The coachman ignored
her and turned to Eliza.

  “Mrs. Jantzen’s ankle is starting to swell up like a puff adder. I’m afraid of proving her right in her fear of amputation if we don’t get to a doctor in short order. I was going to put you on the second horse and lead you, but I really do think we need to ride.”

  Although she had wrapped herself in the other fur from the carriage, Eliza had no protection from the winter other than her waistcoat. Her feet, however, were freezing and starting to go numb.

  “Of course,” Eliza said. “I would not wish further injury to Mrs. Jantzen. But with no saddle, sir, and me encompassed by all this fabric”—she indicated the expanse of her dress—“I do not think we shall both fit, or that I shall be able to remain astride.”

  “I shouldn’t blame your dress, m’lady, as much as my own belly.” He patted his large stomach. “The wife’s shepherd’s pie is too tasty for my own good, I’m afraid. Well. I am at a bit of a loss, I must admit.”

  “It is only five miles to Morristown, you say? Mr. Vincent, you’ve known me to walk that kind of distance on a daily basis back home in Albany. Why don’t you ride with Mrs. Jantzen to aid, and I shall come on foot?”

  “Your self-sacrifice is admirable, m’lady, but I can see how ill shod you are for such a journey.”

  “Nonsense. We Dutch girls rarely even bother with shoes on a day as warm as this.”

  “She’s fine, coachman!” Mrs. Jantzen called. “Do please let’s hurry! I’m DYING!”

  The coachman shook his head anxiously.

  “Night’s coming on, too, and the moon’s waning crescent. One step off the road and I fear it’ll be you who meets her end on this day.”

  Eliza could see no other solution, and wished the coachman would get going with things. The sooner she started walking, the sooner she would reach her destination.

  Before she could speak again, however, she heard the clip-clop of horse hooves from farther down the road.

  “Is it redcoats?” Mrs. Jantzen moaned. “We are killed!”

  The British had been confined to the eastern shore of the Hudson River in New York City, but even so, Eliza was tense as she turned on her aching feet and stepped from behind the broken carriage to see who was approaching. A large bay horse was galloping toward them, mounted by a figure in tricorn and dark blue overcoat.

  “Never fear,” she said to Mrs. Jantzen. “It is one of ours.”

  The soldier’s face was obscured by a scarf, Eliza saw as he approached, no doubt to protect it from the cold. She wouldn’t have minded one herself. The rider was not tall, but certainly not short, with broad shoulders and a perfect, martial posture, wearing a long, slightly curved sword at his waist. The only part of his face that was visible, however, was a pair of piercing blue eyes staring at her—almost, she could have sworn, with amusement.

  A voice came through the scarf with a fog of breath.

  “Looks like we’ve had an accident.” The mirth was audible in the words as well as visible in the eyes.

  “Sorry to say we have,” the coachman replied. “And our precious Mrs. Jantzen has injured her ankle. I wonder if perhaps you could give our Miss Schuyler the use of your horse.”

  “Oh, I’d be happy to give the daughter of General Schuyler a lift,” the scarved figure answered. “That is, if Eliza does not object.”

  The soldier pulled back his scarf then, revealing a shadow of reddish stubble. Eliza’s hand flew to her mouth.

  It was Colonel Alexander Hamilton.

  9

  Knight in Shining Armor

  Not-So-Deserted Road

  Rural New Jersey

  February 1780

  “Slow there, Hector.” Alex inched the big bay closer to the three stranded travelers, bringing him to a precise halt with his nose against his chest. Swinging both legs over his saddle, he landed before them in an elegant dismount.

  “The sun will be down soon. We should make haste.”

  He dropped to one knee next to Eliza and laced the fingers of his gloved hands together to offer a lift up onto Hector’s back. “A leg up, m’lady?”

  An unmistakable quiver of embarrassment and annoyance ran through her but indeed the sun had already dropped behind the trees and darkness was fast setting in. In spite of the frozen cold ground under her delicate cloth shoes, it appeared her wounded pride was enough to make her lift her chin and press on.

  As nimbly as she could, Eliza set her feet in the cradle of his sturdy hands in order to allow herself to be hoisted into place. She placed one hand on his shoulder and reached for the saddle pommel with the other as their bodies passed in close proximity. Calculating the full weight of her body, Alex inhaled the edge of her bonnet and found himself caught off guard by a vague whiff of what could only be whale oil.

  Eliza settled herself with as much dignity as she could muster, both legs to one side of the cavalryman’s saddle. Gathering up the reins, she clutched at some wisp of control. She looked down into the faces of the two men staring up at her and addressed them through a clenched jaw.

  “Now, sirs, I must ask you to kindly turn your backs while I . . . I, I take a moment to, ah . . . arrange myself,” said Eliza. “I’m afraid there’s nothing else for it.”

  “It’s a pity but I agree,” said the young colonel, although he didn’t sound at all disappointed.

  The two men pivoted 180 degrees in perfect tandem.

  The red-faced coachman pulled off his cap and stared straight down into it, a signal he planned to wait as long as this might take. Still strapped across the coachman’s horse like a duffel bag, Mrs. Jantzen swiveled her head to survey the scene. To her right, two men stood staring off into the sunset with their backs to her ward. To her left, General Schuyler’s devoted daughter Eliza was busy hiking her skirts up to her waist, all the while perched atop a sixteen-hand gelding.

  “Lord have mercy upon us all!” wailed the incapacitated chaperone. “This must surely be the devil’s doing.”

  Eliza thought she glimpsed a slight shaking of the much-too-obliging Colonel Hamilton’s shoulders.

  And yet . . . she had real work to do. She raised her skirts and opened her knees wide enough to swing her right leg across the saddle. There! Eliza had grown up riding the fields alongside her father and always felt most in charge on the back of a horse.

  Sitting astride, Eliza leaned forward into the saddle’s polished leather, which was disconcertingly warm. She certainly fit, but the problem was the dress. Between skirt, underskirt, petticoat, slip, and ankle-length, form-fitting pantaloons—which were new in style and considered a bit French and risqué—there was too much fabric for her to ride sidesaddle or otherwise. Her dress ballooned in front of her, spilling out around the horse’s neck, spooking him in the early evening light, and making it impossible to grasp the reins as well. Behind her rose a mountain of petticoats and skirts, leaving no room for a second figure in the saddle.

  “Well, then,” said Eliza. “I’ll need another moment, please, gentlemen.” She slid down from the saddle, aware of the cold ground under her silly shoes and, taking her skirts in her hands, ripped them apart clear up to her knees. But she wasn’t done. Grasping the paler petticoat and underskirt in her hands, she tore them until her legs were covered only by pantaloons and hose.

  Apoplectic at the rending of the garments, the halfway-upside-down Mrs. Jantzen hollered out from the back of her horse. “Do speak up, Miss Schuyler. Is your honor in danger? Say the word and I shall set these ruffians to rights!”

  “Never fear, madam, all is well,” Alex called over his shoulder. “Miss Schuyler’s dress has merely become a bit entangled, and she has freed it from its, ah, entanglements.”

  “Don’t presume to speak to me as if I were a spinster ill versed in the ways of the world, young man. Next thing you know, she’ll be wearing a sack cloth.”

  Eliza had heard the unf
orgiveable laughter in the young colonel’s voice and her blood started to boil. “Mrs. Jantzen, let me assure you I am in full control of my well-being now, as well as in the foreseeable future.”

  Looking every bit the rag doll, Eliza pulled her waistcoat in close for warmth. As she stretched her spine to her full height, a twinkling of vanity flashed through her mind. In five miles she would arrive at the army’s winter quarters as a victim of her mother’s fashion sense. With her bonnet ribbons bouncing around her head, she stuck her left foot in the stirrup and hoisted herself back on Hector. Her legs dangled straight down alongside the leathers, heels down and toes up like the experienced rider she was.

  “Sirs, you may now return me your gaze.”

  The two men turned her way slowly, neither wishing to be the first set of fresh eyes.

  “Crikey!” gurgled the coachman. The stunned Irishman buried his face in his hands. “Oh, miss, please. Forgive me. I am, I am—quite amazed.”

  Alex couldn’t resist a smile. Nor could he pretend that he wasn’t above finding a certain amount of guilty pleasure at the sight of the general’s daughter perched atop his wary steed in a much shorter dress than any girl has ever worn in public.

  “Well, then, coachman! We must all be on our way before the frigid night air sets in. Miss Schuyler and I shall push on at a faster pace than you, due to Mrs. Jantzen’s unfortunate condition. We will ride ahead and send back a flatbed wagon and blankets for a more comfortable and, shall we say, dignified arrival for such a . . . brave lady.”

  The coachman squinted at the brave lady’s rump.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, yanking his cap down over his eyebrows. “It’s sure to be slow going on this end.”

  “Yes, slow indeed.” Alex turned to a shivering Eliza, who was staring resolutely in the opposite direction, pretending not to notice how little she was wearing. He spotted the extra fur blanket on the ground where Eliza had let it fall and handed it up to her.