Alex and Eliza--A Love Story

by Melissa de la Cruz

  Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe he could still do something about it. Call the man out, duel him for her honor.

  It was his last chance to save Eliza. To save himself.

  BUT THE DAY wasn’t done with him yet. After a brisk, rain-soaked trot of some twenty minutes, Alex and Larpent reached the stone barn, his assistant pleading with him all the while to see reason. Alex burst through the doors into a throng of men in various states of disarray and undress. The cavernous space blazed with heat from Colonel Livingston’s appropriated stoves, and a spicy fog of alcohol and sweat laced the air. The revelers were clustered in three distinct throngs.

  Alex scanned the leering faces, looking for Colonel Livingston’s, but saw no trace of him. He made his way to the second group of men, then the third, but though he saw two scantily clad lasses dancing for tips and kisses, he found no trace of Henry Livingston.

  Suddenly Corporal Weston’s face appeared before his. His cheeks were rosy with heat and his speech was addled by alcohol. “Colonel Hatilmon!” he exclaimed. “I mean, Curling Hallinom! You ma’e it to the par’y!”

  He grabbed Alex by the shoulders and would have bestowed a slobbery kiss on him if Alex hadn’t pushed him back.

  “Corporal Weston!” he demanded. “Have you seen Colonel Livingston!”

  “Corna Who?”

  “Livingston!” Alex shouted, trying to make himself heard through the noise of the fog and Corporal Weston’s drunken stupor.

  “Corna Livy-ston?” Corporal Weston laughed. “Never met him!” He held up his glass. “But I’ll drink a toas’ to him. Here’s to Corna Livy-ston, whoever he is!” He swilled a gulp of some frothy lager.

  “But this is his party!” Alex persisted.

  “Livyston’s party? Oh, right-right-right!” Weston said, nodding his head enthusiastically.

  “Where is he, then?”

  “Not a clue. He’s gone. Definitely gone!”

  “Gone! But isn’t he to be married to Miss Schuyler tomorrow?” Alex demanded, his frustration rising.

  “Miss Schuy’er!” Corporal Weston, his eyes lighting. “She’s a beauty, in’t she!” And then, unbidden: “She eloped!”

  “What?” Alex gasped. “It was Miss Angelica Schuyler who eloped. I refer to Miss Elizabeth Schuyler.”

  “Don’t tell me no,” Corporal Weston said with great outrage. “I know Miss Angelabeth, Miss Elizica, Miss”—he took a deep breath to steady himself—“Miss Elizabeth Schuy’er, and I know she eloped. Gone since yes’erday mor’ing.”

  Alex could only stare at the corporal in shock.

  “Miss Elizabeth Schuyler,” he said at last. “Eliza. She—she’s already married? You are certain?”

  Corporal Weston nodded cheerfully, as if he were delivering the most felicitous news in the world.

  “Miss Schuy’er,” he said dreamily, even as his eyes flitted to one of the dancing girls, who had wrapped her shawl around the waist of a shirtless soldier and was using it to pull him behind her toward a ladder that led to the hayloft. “Wouldn’t’ve minded a trip to the haylof’ with the general’s daughter myself.”

  Alex’s jaw dropped open, but his fist was faster. A moment later, Corporal Weston was sprawled unconscious on the stained planks of the barn floor, a drunken smile still plastered across his rapidly swelling lips.

  Alex stared down at the man in surprise. He had not thought that punching a man in the face would make him feel better, but in fact it had.

  Pivoting on his heel, he stalked out of the barn into the rain.

  30

  Taking Liberties

  The Cochran Parlor

  Morristown, New Jersey

  April 1780

  The “party,” such as it was, was over. Kitty Livingston’s coachman, who had spent six hours asleep in a shroud of blankets, had been awakened and clambered sleepily up into his box, to save Kitty the trouble of having to walk a quarter mile to the house she was staying in with her brother and mother, who had come west for the wedding. She had taken Peggy with her, saying Eliza needed a bed to herself on last maiden night, while Aunt Gertrude, who had had perhaps one glass of Madeira too many, had taken herself rather unsteadily up to bed, while Eliza remained downstairs to supervise the lone housemaid still awake in the cleanup of the party.

  There was little to do. Dinner had been eaten and cleared more than four hours earlier. The furniture was pushed back into its usual arrangement, the coals banked in the fire, and then Eliza had urged Louisa to get a few hours’ sleep before the madness of the wedding day should dawn.

  She, however, remained in the parlor, which was still quite warm, and, taking the lamp near a bookshelf, rummaged through until she came across an edition of Richardson’s Clarissa, which she and Angelica and Peggy had taken turns reading aloud to one another some years ago, when they felt the first stirrings of romance in their hearts. She pulled the first volume from the shelf and flipped through idly for some minutes, until at length a passage leapt out at her, bold on the page despite the dim light cast by a single wick.

  I declare to you, that I know not my own heart if it not be absolutely free. And pray let me ask, my dearest mamma, in what has my conduct been faulty, that, like a giddy creature, I must be forced to marry, to save me from—From what? Let me beseech you, Madam, to be the guardian of my reputation! Let not your Clarissa be precipitated into a state she wishes not to enter.

  Eliza sighed. She remembered the passage well, of course. She and Angelica and Peggy had each taken turns declaiming it, competing to see which of the three could be the most dramatic, the most forsaken, the most imploring. Now she wondered whether the passage had appeared as some kind of sign, telling her to follow the truth of her heart and flee this marriage, or whether it was simply the idle workings of her mind, looking for an author’s eloquence to express feelings she was too despondent to put into words.

  She could run, she told herself. It would be like Angelica’s elopement, except instead of an escape to marriage, she would escape from marriage. The Schuylers had not the ready access to cash they had had before the war, but there was still enough money to get her to Philadelphia, where she could find Angelica and John Church and persuade them to let her reside there until such time as Henry had abandoned his suit. She would take a job, as a governess perhaps, or a schoolteacher, or even as a lady’s maid. She would depend upon neither father nor husband to determine the course of her life. She would be free to pursue those great inalienable rights that Mr. Jefferson had enshrined in the Declaration of Independence: her own life, her own liberty, her own happiness.

  But even as a brand-new sort of life flashed before her eyes like a series of paintings in a gallery, she knew the images were no more real than pigmented oils applied to canvas. She was Eliza Schuyler, after all. The middle sister. The sensible one, whose intelligence was steady where Angelica’s was cunning, whose beauty was human where Peggy’s was statuesque. She was the daughter of whom Papa had remarked when she was but seven years old, “A part of me does not mind if I never have a son because I have Eliza. She has a boy’s fortitude and ingenuity without the terrible vanity that afflicts our sex.” Even after Philip was born and had lived past the childhood illnesses that took almost half of the Schuyler children, Papa always said to his namesake and heir, “Take care that you follow your sister Eliza’s example, and you will never bring shame on the family name.”

  Because when all was said and done, she was a Schuyler, and she was proud of it. Her family had been present at the birth of this country under the Dutch and had seen it through its first great political upheaval when the English took over, and now were seeing it through to independence. She didn’t want to run from that legacy. She wanted to add to it, to build on it, to help make the United States be what it wanted to be, a place where all souls—black as well as white, and female, too—could realize their full potential, re
gardless of the circumstances of their birth.

  So she would not run. She would stay. She would do her duty. She would hold her head up high, and no one would ever reproach her.

  And would it be so bad? Eliza understood that Angelica had chosen John Church not for his jawline or waistline, but because he was attentive to her, and would give her access to the society she craved. They would build a good life together—the life that Angelica wanted. And Peggy had been corralled into allowing Stephen Van Rensselaer to court her for two and half years now, though he was too young and too earnest. Yet he did dote on her, and he was kind, and when they finally married, Peggy said, it wouldn’t be a case of two strangers awkwardly maneuvering around each other, but of two friends progressing in a relationship that had developed for years—although in this case one of the friends had carefully shaped the other into exactly what she wanted in a mate, certain that he would treat her as the drone treats the queen bee, attending to her every need. Eliza was twice as resourceful as Angelica and Peggy. If they could mold their men, then why couldn’t she?

  But the heart of the matter was simple. She didn’t want to marry Henry Livingston when she was desperately, helplessly, in love with someone else. Someone who, while he had wooed and whispered sweet nothings into her ear and had hinted at the depth of his feeling and affection, had never declared himself. Had never asked her aunt and uncle for permission to court her, and as Kitty had pointed out, he had never proposed or made his intentions clear.

  His reputation preceded him. Alexander Hamilton was a tomcat and a flirt, and she had fallen for him anyway, but it didn’t make a difference, as he was nowhere near. He was gone, to the 3rd New Jersey Regiment, to battle and to glory, had left town without looking back once.

  SUCH THOUGHTS AS these were flitting about her head when she heard a sound in the rear of the house, near the kitchen. One of the servants, she thought, sneaking in for a bite to eat now that the mistress is asleep. Or who knows, maybe it was Kitty and Peggy. But a moment later she heard a heavy clatter of crockery and, even through two closed doors, a pained curse followed by a self-mocking laughter.

  Eliza placed her book down and took her lamp to the hall. Cool air swirled about her and she pulled her shawl over her bare shoulders and chest.

  “Hello?” she called in a low voice, not wanting to wake anyone upstairs—if indeed they had not been awakened already.

  The kitchen door swung open, and a man’s face appeared. It staggered unsteadily toward her, but only when it was a few feet away did the light reveal who the visitor was.

  “Why, Colonel Livingston! What on earth are you doing here?” Besides being intoxicated, she added to herself.

  Henry placed a sweaty hand on the wallpaper to steady himself.

  “What? Eliza? Have I wandered into the wrong house in error? All these colonials look the same.” But even as he said that, a smile flickered across the edges of his mouth, and she knew he was pretending.

  “I think you should not be here, Colonel. It is bad luck to see the bride before the wedding, for one thing, and for another we have a long day tomorrow, and both of us could use some sleep to restore us from the excesses of our celebrations.”

  “Celebrations, eh?” Henry slurred.

  “We had some hot chocolate,” said Eliza.

  “Chocolate! Of course. Eliza the sensible Schuyler. Plain dresses, no wigs, not even a bit of décolletage to give us something to look at.” And as he spoke, his free hand darted forward and swatted at Eliza’s shawl, dragging it roughly from her shoulders.

  “What! I spoke too soon! Look at those, I had not realized you were so . . . blessed!”

  Eliza knew she should be shocked, yet she felt an eerie calmness descend upon her. Henry’s actions were so far beyond the pale that condemning them was almost beside the point. What she needed to do was disarm him.

  “It is quite chilly here in the hall. Let’s go into the parlor, where the fire still burns. I can make you some chocolate.”

  Without waiting for answer, she turned and headed back into the parlor, fixing her shawl as she went.

  “Chocolate? No, thanks,” Henry groused, falling onto the sofa where Kitty had held court less than an hour before.

  “Miss Livingston was nice enough to bring several tins from her latest trip.”

  “Kitty?” Henry’s head whipped back and forth, as if his sister might still be in the room. “She is overfond of European luxuries, that one. I tell you, Liza, if there’s one thing I’m looking forward to at the end of this war, it’s kicking out all the foreigners. All the Brits and Germans and especially the French, with their dandy men and frosted women. Give me good, solid, earthy American men and women, unpowdered, unwigged, and, hell, unwashed.”

  Eliza winced inwardly at Henry’s profanity, but kept her face calm. She handed him his cup. Caught unawares, he started coughing, his cheeks reddened and his forehead sprouted drops of sweat.

  “What is that?” he said when he could speak again.

  “Chocolate, as I said,” Eliza said demurely, reaching out with the pot, which she had brought with her, to refill Henry’s cup. “It’s a little bitter, but warming.”

  “This is terrible,” Henry panted, tossing back a second shot, which went down smoother than the first. “You women were drinking this?”

  “Yes.”

  “My God! I underestimated you. You must have the constitution of a goat.”

  “I think it’s lovely,” Eliza said, even as she leaned forward with the pot once more. “More?”

  “No!” he said, spilling half its contents on the chintz fabric of the sofa.

  “Whoa, what happened?” His head lolled around his shoulders. “I feel as though we are in a dollhouse, and a little girl is shaking it in a tantrum.”

  “The room feels quite still to me,” Eliza said. “Perhaps you ought to lie back and close your eyes.”

  She took his cup and saucer from him and set it on a small table placed before the sofa; even as Henry allowed himself to fall against the back of the sofa so heavily that his hat, which he had not removed, fell off his head and disappeared behind the sofa. His eyes drooped and so did his jaw, while the fingers of his right hand pawed weakly at his cravat, yet could not seem to remember how to untie a knot.

  Eliza sat very quietly, waiting for what she assumed would be the inevitable sound of snoring, at which point she would make her escape. And indeed one loud snort tore from Henry’s throat, but the sound seemed to startle him awake and he lurched from the sofa unsteadily, kicking the table before it and smashing it to splinters. The porcelain cup went flying, crashing loudly against the floorboards.

  “Worse!” Henry moaned. “Oh, lying back makes it so much worse.” He fell forward, catching himself on the side of Aunt Gertrude’s wing-backed chair. “Poison!” he moaned. “You have poisoned me!”

  Eliza thought to say that she and Kitty and Peggy had all drunk the chocolate without any ill effects, but when Henry looked up at her, suddenly she saw a strange leer in his eye, and her words died in her throat.

  “It was all your plan, wasn’t it? To lure me here and take advantage of me?”

  “Take advantage of you how?” Eliza said drily. “Braid your hair like a little girl’s, and paint your lips like a courtesan’s?”

  Henry giggled uncontrollably at this image, so much so that Eliza thought he was going to fall backward into the fire.

  “You are funny! And saucy! I think marrying you won’t be so dreadful after all. If I promise to always stay drunk, do you promise to always inflame me with that naughty tongue of yours?”

  “Inflame you? Is your ego so damaged that you take insults as entreaties?”

  Henry giggled, but a little less certainly, as he tried to make sense of her words. Then, quite before she knew what was happening, he had lurched across the parlor and half leapt, half f
allen upon her.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know what you’re doing. We men like to think that you girls are all innocents who know nothing about the world, but I know better. You little minxes are always trying to control us to satisfy your own craven pleasures. And you know what I say? I say satisfy them!”

  His hands pawed at her shoulders and his glistening lips made for hers. She turned her face away in disgust and felt a wet smear across the side of her chin and neck.

  “Colonel Livingston, have you quite forgotten yourself? You are a gentleman, and my fiancé as well. You degrade us both with this behavior!”

  “You’re right,” Henry slurred, pulling her close when she attempted to slide free. “I am your husband. By this time tomorrow we will be married, and then the law itself will compel you to submit to me. So why not submit to me now. Start your marriage right: by giving your husband what he wants.”

  He grabbed at her, and Eliza heard fabric rip as she pushed him away. For the first time she began to be afraid. With another strong push, she was able to get out from under him, and she stood up quickly. Her fingers closed around something of their own accord. She looked down and saw it was the pot of hot chocolate.

  Eliza thought of calling out, but to whom? Kitty and Peggy were gone and the servants had retired to their quarters. Only Aunt Gertrude remained in the house, and assuming she even heard Eliza through her alcohol-laced slumber, the prospect of such a reputable woman being confronted with Henry’s scandalous behavior was even more shaming than having to suffer it herself.

  She sat up straight and summoned a breath.

  “It is time for you to go, Colonel Livingston. If you wish to salvage this marriage, and indeed your reputation, you need to leave now.”

  “Or what?” Henry said in an ugly, amused voice. “You’ll hit me with a porcelain pot?”