My Dear Hamilton

by Stephanie Dray

  A little spark of surprise lit behind his eyes. And I hoped . . . what exactly? That he would stop saying such things? That he would stop feeling them? That he would promise to never act on them? Or maybe, instead, that he would unburden himself to me, so that he never entertained any imaginings of the glory of death ever again?

  But he only seemed to retreat a little behind a facade, affecting an insouciant smile and a careless tone. “Not many other paths, it would seem, since General Washington pleads I am too indispensable to do anything but write his letters.”

  My sister’s words returned to me then, and I said, “With the right connections, there would be no limit to your future.” Fighting the blush against what I implied, I hastened to add, “You’re so witty and well read, and you speak French, and you understand finance, and you’re curious about seemingly every idea and philosophy. You remind me very much of . . .” I trailed off there, in embarrassment.

  His eyebrow rose in question. “Major André?”

  I blinked. “Pardon me?”

  “John André,” Hamilton said. “I suppose he was a lieutenant when you knew him. Sometimes we must treat with the enemy. And when we do, you’ve occasionally been the toast of the table.”

  It’d been some time since I’d given any thought to that British officer, but I flushed to know he remembered me kindly. And to sense that Hamilton felt some jealousy. “Oh,” I said, a little flustered. “I am—I mean, I was—very fond of Major André and flattered to think he, or any of his officers, toast me. And he was—or is—a very accomplished gentleman. But, no, that’s not who I was going to name.”

  “No?” Hamilton asked. “Some other beau then?” I shook my head in denial, but he continued on. “I shall be cross if you compare me to my good friend Monroe, who speaks French well enough, but has a much slower wit.”

  To see the insecurity hidden behind Hamilton’s words hurt my heart, for he had all but obliterated every thought of any man before him. And so I rushed to tell him the plain truth. “I was going to say you remind me of my sister. And please trust me when I say that is one of the highest compliments I could offer. If Angelica were a man, she would—”

  “You’ve no need to convince me of Mrs. Carter’s merits,” Hamilton said with a reassuring smile. “Charm and courage run in your family, from the paterfamilias to all his children. I am an admirer of your father, already, as you know.”

  “As am I, for he is both a soldier and a statesman.”

  “A statesman,” Hamilton said, and I could not tell if he took me seriously or not. “You think there is glory enough in that?”

  “I do,” I replied.

  I wish now that I’d said more.

  I wish I’d said that he need not prove himself to me or to the world. I think I didn’t say it because I was young and foolish and quite out of my depth when it came to the demons that haunted the man I loved. But I sometimes fear that I didn’t say it because I didn’t believe it.

  And that he knew.

  After the door closed that night, and I went up to bed, Angelica asked, “How desperately do you want him?”

  I’d not given voice to the depth of my feelings for Hamilton yet, not to anyone. But if anyone would understand, my sister would, and I wished most deeply for Angelica to approve. “I think I fathom now what you said that night.”

  She wound her fingers with mine. “What night?”

  “When you eloped,” I whispered. “Love is a thing beyond reason.”

  “Oh, my sweet sister. Yes, it is.” She pulled me into a hug and peppered me with a million questions about all that had happened between us, finally concluding with, “He’s a hardworking man, Betsy. You know I’m fond of him. But he’s also an ambitious one. Could you be satisfied with a man who is always striving for more?”

  I gave careful thought to her question, but I didn’t consider ambition a fault. After what Hamilton and I had discussed earlier in the evening, I took some solace in his ambition, for I believed that in pursuing it, he’d find the glory he so seemed to want without having to share Phaethon’s fate. And everything I knew of what Alexander Hamilton had overcome and achieved, I admired. So, whatever he accomplished next, I would be proud to stand at his side, should he ever wish it. Perhaps I was a fool for thinking he would.

  “I’m not sure if I could be happy with him,” I admitted. But happiness seemed too flimsy a thing to reach for. I might have found happiness with a less complicated man—a polite and dutiful man like Tench Tilghman. Instead, I was drawn to Hamilton, who challenged me to be so much more than a fine-tempered girl. And the person he brought out in me—I wasn’t sure I could be happy again without.

  * * *

  Answer to the Inquiry Why I Sighed

  Before no mortal ever knew

  A love like mine so tender, true,

  Completely wretched—you away,

  And but half blessed e’en while you stay.

  If present love, obstacles face

  Deny you to my fond embrace

  No joy unmixed my bosom warms

  But when my angel’s in my arms.

  —SONNET BY ALEXANDER HAMILTON FOR ELIZABETH SCHUYLER

  Plink. Plink. Plink.

  The sound of pebbles hitting glass scarcely cut through my dreamless nighttime reverie as I read a sonnet Alexander wrote me. It was all, everything, happening so fast. And I couldn’t quite believe it was happening to me.

  My sister shook me, holding a candle aloft. “Betsy, your suitor is at the window.”

  “But it’s the middle of the night,” I whispered, and though I ought to have been delighted to see him again, my breath caught with worry, remembering the expression on Alexander’s face just before he’d left my uncle’s house that evening, some dark cloud before his eyes. Surely it was nothing, for I had proof of his love in my hands.

  Kitty groaned and covered her face with a pillow. “Oh, fasten a robe and go down to that prowling tomcat or he’ll never go away!”

  I said, “But Aunt Gertrude will hear—”

  “For pity’s sake, you’re hopeless,” Angelica said. “Have I let her discover you holding hands and kissing before? The baby and I will go down with you. If Aunt Gertrude hears us, I’ll tell her the little one was fussing.”

  It sounded unforgivably duplicitous, but it was precisely the sort of mischief at which Angelica excelled. And because I could still feel the brush of Hamilton’s hands upon my skin, and because my lips were still sweet with his kisses, I was powerless to resist either of them.

  In slippered feet, Angelica and I both stole down the stairs. Quietly, I unlatched the back door to find Hamilton there, his eyes bright as he slipped inside the house. “Ladies—”

  “The keeping room,” Angelica whispered, nudging us to where the silver and valuables were kept and servants were not permitted. Then, with my baby niece in her arms, Angelica posted herself as guard, closing us in alone in the darkness with but a single candle.

  “Is something the matter?” I whispered to Hamilton in the dim light.

  “Yes,” he said, quite gravely, a tremor in his voice. “I have something to say, and if it waits another moment, I shall lose my nerve.”

  I’d never seen him afraid before. Angry, dutiful, officious, charming, reckless, smug, cynical. All those things. But never afraid until now. “The story I told you before. The one about my parents. There is another version.”

  “Another version?” How could there be more than one?

  He took my hands in his, gently stroking his thumbs over my knuckles, then bringing them to his mouth to kiss. “There is a version of the story I have entrusted to no one else but my dear friend Laurens. But I cannot bear to deceive you.”

  I should have given that casual admission more thought. That there was someone Hamilton trusted. Someone he had trusted more than me. A man I’d never met. A man of whom he spoke worshipfully. And Hamilton was not a man to worship. But all I knew then was that he was speaking of deception. That he
was making me afraid now, too. And I’d always believed bad news should be delivered quickly. “Please tell me.”

  “I let you believe my illegitimacy was a mere wrinkle in the law. What I didn’t say was that my mother was jailed for multiple adulteries. Suspected of worse. Held captive in a dank, dark cell, half-starved for months. And when she died, she was denied even the right to pass on property to her whore-children.”

  I will never forget the way in which he uttered the word whore-children, as if hissing from a brand pressed to his skin. And it made me grasp his hands tighter, tears in my eyes. “Oh, Alexander . . .”

  He swallowed. “I don’t even know if the man who I called Father is my father.”

  I swallowed, too, meeting his eyes so that he would know that I meant what I said. “I understand. And I hold you blameless. None of it is your doing.”

  Manfully, he squared his shoulders. “That is kind of you to say. But in courting you, I’ve shot quite above my station. I can only plead love in defense of myself.”

  Emotion lodged a knot in my throat. He loved me. His sonnet had confessed as much, but to hear it from his mouth, to see it in his eyes . . .

  He continued, “My feelings for you make me restless and discontent with everything that used to please me and I began to imagine the world might be different. But I’m a man of hard realities. If this must end things between us I will harbor no ill will.”

  So, this was why he’d looked so tortured before he left earlier tonight. He thought it might be our last night together. And now his hands actually trembled in mine.

  I reached for his cheek, and touched it, tenderly. “Alexander, this makes no difference to me.”

  “It has made all the difference to my life. It’s bad enough people think I am—”

  “I don’t care what anyone else thinks because I love you. I love your mind, the variety of your knowledge, your playful wit, and the excellence of your heart. I love you for reasons that defy any explanation at all.”

  Angelica had been right. Love was a thing beyond reason, beyond control. A thing almost predestined. And now that this powerful emotion had finally taken hold of me, I was entirely helpless against it.

  He must have felt it, too, because his mouth closed over mine with such hunger it nearly frightened me. Or maybe the hunger that frightened me was my own. I realized my compromised state, only my nightclothes between us. But as his hands slid down my back with carnal intimacy, and his mouth went to my face, my neck, and my hair, there was no liberty I would not have allowed him.

  “Betsy,” he said, hoarsely, stroking my hair. “You deserve better. With me, your future rank in life would be a perfect lottery. You might move in exalted company or a very humble sphere.”

  “I don’t care.” All I heard was that he was speaking about a life with me. A future with me. “I love you.” I said it like an incantation.

  “Could you truly be an Aquileia and cheerfully plant turnips with me?”

  “Yes,” I whispered, smiling as I clutched at him.

  “Even if America were lost?”

  I knew how desperate the circumstances were but could not bear to think of the war being lost. Not after all the suffering and sacrifice. That was the only reason I hesitated to answer.

  Alexander swallowed. “I was once determined to let my existence and American liberty end together. But you give me a reason to outlive my pride. If the war is lost, could you live as the wife of a fugitive, leaving behind your home and everything you know?”

  “I’m already the proud daughter of a rebel, sir.”

  He smiled at that. “What think you of Geneva as a retreat? I’m told it is a charming place, favorable to human rights. Would you go with me?”

  This time I didn’t hesitate. Not even long enough to think. “I would go anywhere with you.”

  He pressed his forehead to mine. “Then, Elizabeth Schuyler, will you consent to have me for a husband?”

  “Yes.” Yes to anything. Yes to everything. Perhaps my parents wouldn’t approve. But I wouldn’t let them stop me. I felt certain that I could never be happy again without this man. I wasn’t even sure I was myself—or who I’d been before. Every plan, every desire, every hope was lost to all-consuming passion. “I want to be yours this very night.”

  “Temptress.” Hamilton groaned and pressed against me, giving me evidence of his desire. And I desired him, too. So much so that the only thing that seemed right was for us to come together, skin to skin. But at length, he held me away and took a steadying gulp of air before we lost our heads completely. “It must all be done right between us. I must write for your father’s blessing.”

  “He might not give it,” I admitted.

  But Hamilton replied, “I am told I am very persuasive with a pen. Especially when I want something. And I want you.”

  My breath caught to hear it. I knew he was persuasive with a pen; his beautiful sonnet was proof of that. But with my blood afire, I wanted it all to be done now. “It will take too long to wait for permission. Papa will forgive us.” After all, he’d forgiven Angelica. “Go wake the reverend.”

  Hamilton groaned again. This time, with more pain. “Betsy, I can’t. I can’t. What would people say if I were to run off with the daughter of General Schuyler? They would say I’m a self-seeking, fortune-hunting seducer, angling for advantage.”

  I realized that I would have loved Alexander Hamilton even if he were all those things. Even if he loved me only for the advantage I could bring him. “Let them say it.”

  “You know what I am.” A whore-child, he meant, as if it was a crack in his soul that threatened to break my heart, too. “I cannot risk even a spot upon the reputation of any child we might have.”

  A self-seeking seducer angling for advantage would not pass up an opportunity to elope with the daughter of Philip Schuyler. Nor would he worry for the reputation of his child.

  Only a man of honor would do that.

  He might not be descended of a Scottish nobleman, I thought. But, he had something more important than a noble title. Like my father, he had nobility of character. And though I knew it was madness that two people should come to love one another so passionately in such a short space of time, I wanted nothing more than to be his wife. Even if it meant I had to wait.

  Chapter Nine

  December 1, 1780

  Albany

  AM I MAKING a mistake?

  I had been so certain of Alexander Hamilton. Ready to run away and elope with him if he had allowed it. But now Benedict Arnold was a traitor, and I wondered how anyone could be certain of anything or anyone.

  Benedict Arnold, the Hero of Saratoga.

  The man who’d lost much of the use of his leg in service to this country. A man I’d admired. A man who’d eaten at our table and flirted with my sister. A man who’d used Papa’s long friendship to secure a posting at West Point, all while scheming to turn it over to the British, apparently believing my father would go along with his treachery.

  Never!

  But just as Papa’s reputation had recovered, his friendship with Arnold now tainted him again. At the very least, it put his judgment into question. The betrayal was a blow both personal and symbolic, and Arnold’s attempt to sacrifice West Point and the men inside it was a treason of the darkest dye.

  Despite Lafayette having suspected a traitor long ago, Arnold’s treason was discovered only by some miracle of coincidence, in the nick of time, and Alexander had been there.

  Arnold immediately fled to the enemy. I went in pursuit of him but was much too late, my betrothed wrote from the field.

  Arnold had gotten away. But they’d captured his British spymaster instead.

  John André.

  The injustice of it! That good, honorable officer—even if he was an enemy—would now hang for Arnold’s crime. And his death would be brought about, in some part, by the man I was to marry . . .

  Alexander was bitterly sorry for it; so much so that when I pleaded with h
im to use his influence to allow André to be shot like a gentleman, not hanged as a spy, he did as I asked. Though Washington would not hear of it.

  “It isn’t just,” I’d fumed to my father.

  But Papa blamed Benedict Arnold. “Very little is just in war, my child.”

  In his letters, Hamilton blamed Arnold, too, expressing sympathy only for the wife he’d abandoned.

  Her horror at the traitor is lost in her love of the man. But a virtuous mind cannot long esteem a base one, and time will make her despise him, if it cannot make her hate. My angelic Betsy, I would not for the world do anything that would hazard your esteem. ’Tis to me a jewel of inestimable price and I think you may rely I shall never make you blush.

  I believed him, though I shouldn’t have, because in time, he did make me blush. Worse than that, he made me despair of the traitor in him, too. For though Alexander Hamilton did not betray his country, he did betray me. And now, I struggle with whether love or hate burns more intensely inside me.

  But then, as a young woman contemplating marriage, the Arnold situation was a stark reminder that to marry a man was to share his fate and be vulnerable to all his decisions and mistakes. The traitor’s wife and child would forever bear the brand of his treason; and I wondered, did Mrs. Arnold have an inkling of the darkness that dwelt within her husband, or was she now bewildered at the stranger she had married?

  Still, Arnold’s treason wasn’t the only thing to fill me with doubts.

  When I agreed to marry Hamilton, I’d worried that my father would not give his consent for our marriage. Especially when Alexander insisted upon confessing his sordid origins to Papa. My parents—both of proud lineages—had objected to my brother-in-law, Jack Carter, because they knew nothing of his family. And yet, my father told Alexander, “Your eloquence and George Washington’s recommendation make me glad to welcome you to our family.”

  That, and perhaps Papa’s sense that if he did not give his permission, I would elope, too. I suspected as much because Papa also told Alexander, “It gave Betsy’s mother great pain to miss her daughter’s wedding, and me as well. I should not like to suffer it a second time.”