My Dear Hamilton

by Stephanie Dray

  Our voices awakened the baby, who gave a stretch and halfhearted cry before settling again.

  My husband was too clever a man not to realize his blunder but was too hot-tempered to retract. Instead, he took me by the arms and gave me a little shake. “Let us reach an understanding, you and I. You would never betray me, Betsy. It isn’t in you. But I would forgive you if you did. Do you understand? I’d forgive you anything, so long as you loved me. For love is the power that binds us. That, and our children, and the life we have together.”

  I’d forgive you anything, so long as you loved me.

  He’d turned upon me the full blaze of his extraordinary blue eyes. The heat of his body. The power of his charisma and an appeal to our love, and yet, I whispered, “I don’t believe you.”

  His grip tightened. “You do believe me. I’ve caused you pain, but I love you. Deep in your heart, you know it’s true.”

  What did that matter? My heart, after all, had proved to be an untrustworthy instrument. The only thing I could rely upon was my head and cold, hard reason. And so I asked, “What price did you pay? You said you paid the man. How much?”

  He swallowed hard and stared a long moment. “Just over a thousand dollars.”

  Nearly a third of his income in any given year. A sum so shocking that I pushed his hands away. “Please tell me, at the very least, it was your own money,” I bit out.

  “God. Of course. I couldn’t bear for you to find out, Betsy. Would a man who did not love you pay so much?”

  He meant this to be a branch for me to cling to while I drowned in humiliation. I grasped at it, only for my sanity. “Well, now I know. So, they have nothing more to hold over you.”

  He blanched. “They do. That’s why he was at the door last night. Reynolds has been released from jail, but if I don’t get him clear of the fraud charges, he’ll tell a story to the investigators. I cannot do what he wishes, but I will meet with him this morning and persuade him to keep quiet anyway.”

  Now we come to the real reason for this confession, I thought. He’s been forced to it.

  For there was, indeed, something Hamilton dreaded more than my discovery of his infidelity, and that was an end to his administration. He believed that in these early years of the American experiment, faith in him was the same as faith in the government he served.

  That if Hamilton was thought to be corrupted, the system he built would collapse.

  Alas, I couldn’t say that he was wrong.

  Now, spent of his confessions, my husband eased himself back upon the bed and nestled our baby boy in his arms. Stroking Johnny’s peach-fuzz head, Hamilton whispered, “I know I’ve done wrong, Betsy. Even if you forgive me, I cannot forgive myself for risking that our children be thought the descendants of a thief who stole from the country he was entrusted to defend. I have only ever wished to give my sons an honorable name in which to take pride . . .”

  An honorable name. It’s all my husband ever wanted. And when his father hadn’t given it to him, he made one for himself out of nothing but sweat and courage.

  Now that name belonged to our children. And should our children suffer for their father’s sins?

  Though I should be weeping, in that moment I was too numb to fall to pieces. For a long moment, my head was a maelstrom of confusion. But then, clarity stole through. “You cannot rely on your blackmailer to keep quiet. Better to summon the investigators, tell them the truth, and throw yourself upon their mercy, as gentlemen, to keep your private failings in confidence.”

  “Summon them here?” Hamilton’s eyes flew open. “With you and the children . . .”

  I nodded, swallowing over fury and pain. “Invite them into our home. Let them see me and your little ones. Remind them who will pay the price for wagging tongues.”

  As if apprehending what I’d have to endure, he groaned. “I couldn’t ask you to do this for me.”

  “Good thing, because I would not do it for you.”

  I would do it for my children.

  It was, after all, the only wise, politic choice.

  And Alexander Hamilton had, at long last, made me a politician.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  REYNOLDS. REYNOLDS. REYNOLDS.

  As I kneaded dough, I couldn’t get the name out of my head, sure I could place it. Maria Reynolds was a harlot, my husband insisted. A woman whose husband prostituted her. A woman beneath my contempt. I imagined her as a dainty sparrow of a thing. The kind who might flutter about, as if with a broken wing in need of tending. Ought I do the same when the investigators came to my house?

  I was broken in earnest. Heartbroken. And perhaps, if I showed that heartbreak, it would evoke sympathy. Or perhaps it would subject me to their laughter.

  James Monroe would never laugh at me, I thought. In loyalty to my husband, I’d never attempted to untangle or name my feelings for Monroe or his for me—but I’d always believed our connection to be deeper and more complicated than friendship. Monroe was the first man to stir romantic feelings in my breast—a man with whom I felt a kinship in wanderlust and passion for the cause.

  He would have never broken my heart. Nor would have Tench Tilghman, for that matter. If I’d made a match with either of them—good soldiers, solid gentlemen with respectable upbringings and a concern for morality—I wouldn’t be suffering this now.

  But I’d chosen Alexander Hamilton.

  A fact I reminded myself of as I methodically scraped the loaf of sugar for a confection I couldn’t taste, for the world had become devoid of flavor. I could scarcely see color, which made it a trial to choose what to wear. If I wore something dark and plain, would the investigators feel sorrier for me? Or perhaps I should wear my gauzy white dress, the one that left less of my body to the imagination, so they’d think my husband a fool for betraying me.

  I was never a beauty. It was only that, until a few days ago, Alexander had made me feel like one. Now I felt like nothing.

  That night the investigators came to my house, just as I’d suggested. Two legislators I knew by name only, a treasury official, and James Monroe. While my girls played by the fireplace with their new toys—brought by Sinterklaas in burlap sacks days before—I welcomed the men into the house with a plate of rye-flour pepernoot cookies, fragrant with cinnamon, anise, and clove.

  “Compliments of the season,” Monroe drawled, with a very formal bow that seemed somehow at odds with his brown hunting boots and the black tricorn beaver felt hat that was swiftly going out of style. Meanwhile, my boys ran about like rowdies, led by a laughing, taunting ten-year-old Philip, pelting one another with extra pepernoot they’d stolen from the kitchen, which was not strictly the custom. But I was too weary to take a firm hand with them, especially when I had grown men to manage.

  “Coffee?” I asked Monroe, forcing a smile.

  “What else?” Monroe chuckled softly, as if a little abashed to be upon this errand. And as if, perhaps, he thought I didn’t know why he’d come. Clearing his throat, he said, “Mrs. Monroe sends her warm regards.”

  “And I return mine. I hope to see your wife and your darling little daughter at a holiday tea after church this Sunday.” Monroe’s smile warmed so I added, “We’ve come such a long way from an army campfire, haven’t we, Senator Monroe?”

  “Indeed we have. How young, hopeful, and idealistic we were . . .”

  “I am still hopeful,” I said, filling his cup to the brim just as bitterness filled me up inside.

  Once I’d finished serving refreshments, Alexander stood, ready to furnish all the information they could require to acquit him of a crime—receipts of his blackmail payments, I assumed—so I retired from the room and kept the children quiet upstairs.

  It was quiet downstairs, too. Maddeningly so. I didn’t know what to make of it, especially when the men remained closeted together much longer than I thought necessary. Indeed, the interview seemed to go on and on until I grew weary watching the hands on our grandfather clock move.

 
When, at last, I heard the scrape of chair legs on wood—the sound of a meeting reaching its end—I hastened downstairs again. Alexander should have seen the men off. But I’d persuaded him that I should be the one to do it. And so I forced myself to say a kindly and proper farewell.

  Given what my husband had just told them, I wasn’t surprised that the investigators whom I didn’t know well couldn’t meet my eyes. But James Monroe’s face burned scarlet at the sight of me and he lingered in the doorway long after the others departed, a sheaf of papers under his arm.

  With a shake of his head, he began to stammer. “I—Mrs. Hamilton—Betsy . . .”

  It’d been a long time since he used my name with that soft southern drawl. The intimacy of it seemed somehow improper. But the sound of it carried genuine sympathy. Oh, why had I feared the men’s laughter instead of their pity? Pity was worse. Far worse. Especially from him.

  Though I wanted to flee, I somehow made myself stand there and say, “I trust you’re satisfied with my husband’s innocence on the charge of corruption?”

  Monroe’s color deepened, if that was possible, at the word innocence. In fact, he cast such a bloody-minded look in the direction of the study that I feared it’d all gone badly. “Secretary Hamilton has provided me with exculpatory documentation and we will not make any report to the president at this time. I believe your husband will acknowledge that our conduct toward him has been fair and liberal—and that he could not complain of it.”

  Oh, Alexander would complain of it. But he should be grateful for Monroe, who actually cared whether or not he complained. And I could see that Monroe cared very much.

  “Mrs. Hamilton, please believe that I wish you every happiness.”

  Monroe had flushed at the word innocence, but I now blanched at the word happiness. He noticed and all pretense fell away. Either I was no good at pretense, or he knew me well enough to realize that I was aware of my husband’s infidelity.

  “You are a kind, lovely, and charming woman and you deserve much better than—”

  “Pray don’t say another word,” I whispered, wilting with humiliation. Why did I think I could do this? Why did I think I was strong enough? To my horror, tears welled before I could blink them away. “I should plead for your discretion as a gentleman on behalf of my husband, but in truth, I beg of you, for myself—”

  “Dear God, to see you cry,” Monroe said, setting down the papers and reaching inside his sleeve for an embroidered kerchief, which he offered me at once. “Insofar as is in keeping with my duty, the papers will remain sealed. As will my lips, for your sake. You have my word of honor.”

  His kerchief smelled faintly of tobacco and pine and I let out a tiny sob into it full of relief and sorrow. It would be better if no one knew what Hamilton had done. No one. Not my friends. Not my parents. Not even Angelica, for such things could never be entrusted to a letter across the ocean. So the only person to whom I could confide was James Monroe.

  “The tears will pass,” I said, trying for bravery. “It’s only the lingering shame.”

  “Not your shame,” Monroe said, his fists tightening, as if he meant to turn, march back into my husband’s study, and beat him.

  “Nevertheless, I don’t know how I can bear it.”

  Monroe didn’t have to be told how society looked upon a wife who wasn’t enough to satisfy her husband.

  Not enough. Not enough. Not enough.

  As these words battered my insides, I felt undone. Quite low. Indescribably miserable.

  Vulnerable in every way.

  And so I was grateful when, with exquisite chivalry, Monroe drew my hand to his lips for a gentlemanly kiss. “The girl I met in Albany who could gamely drink some poison concoction without complaint, play a ruthless game of backgammon, and set off into the wilds in a sleigh—that girl could bear anything.”

  “That girl is long gone.”

  “She’s still here,” Monroe said, offering a tender smile and pressing my hand, for just a moment, to his heart. “Where she will always reside. My dear friend, I’ve held on to those memories, and I urge you to hold on to them, too.”

  My breath evened at the unexpected intimacy, at the strong pulse beneath my palm, at the knowledge that there were paths in my life I had not taken and the glimmer of hope that even if I couldn’t see past my own sadness now, there might still be new paths to discover. “Thank you,” I whispered.

  Monroe nodded, gravely. “Your husband is the luckiest of men, and I hope, at long last, he realizes it.” He didn’t need to give me that one small bit of flattery; perhaps he shouldn’t have. But it was a mercy, and it gave me the strength to dry my tears. When I was composed again, I found a plate for him, covered in a white linen napkin. “Pastries for Mrs. Monroe.”

  He smiled when our fingers brushed lightly as he took the plate. “Perhaps we can all share them together in more sociable circumstances.”

  Alas, there would never be more sociable circumstances for us. Not ever again.

  * * *

  April 1793

  Philadelphia

  Vive la République!

  While I made my way through the crowds, church bells rang, cannons blasted, and Philadelphians sang in honor of the French, who had outlawed the monarchy, beheaded their king, and now found themselves at war with Great Britain.

  In spite of our old treaty with France, President Washington had declared American neutrality in this war, but everywhere I went, my countrymen took up the cry of our old allies.

  Vive la République!

  On this day, the celebration was for the arrival of a frigate the French had taken from the British. Upon her coming into sight, thousands and thousands of the yeomanry of the city crowded the wharves and, when the British colors appeared reversed, the French flying above them, people burst into peals of exultation.

  But I wasn’t in this squalid part of Philadelphia to celebrate.

  I’d come for a less dignified reason, one that wisdom should have cautioned me against. In the aftermath of my husband’s betrayal, I’d spent a dark miserable winter on my knees in prayer. Now springtime had stolen upon me, insulting me with its showy, colorful, perfumed glory.

  And I had to see her.

  I had to see Maria Reynolds.

  Men stray, my sister Angelica would’ve told me. I could hear her words as if she were standing beside me, warning me to leave off this nonsense. It’s in their nature. You’re making too much of it. Your husband still loves you, and you’re lucky to have him!

  Certainly, since Hamilton’s midnight confession, he’d been solicitous, sharing in the care of the children, staying home at night, and sheepishly turning down meetings with colleagues in deference, he said, to his growing and hitherto too much neglected family.

  But in recent weeks, more confessions had spilled from his lips. It was not, as he’d first intimated, just one night with this woman. For nearly a year he’d gone to her bed, and I, the trusting fool, had never suspected. And when I demanded to know why he’d not simply told me everything all at once, he said, “I thought you might take easier to a thing if it was gradually broken to you, my angel.”

  Which left me to wonder what other painful revelations remained.

  I knew my husband regretted this woman. I also knew most wives overlooked infidelity. Only a select few divorced. But in New York State, adultery was the only grounds upon which a woman could seek a divorce. And I will not say I didn’t flirt with the thought at night, in our now very cold bed.

  But to what end? It wouldn’t undo the pain. And who would I be if I wasn’t Alexander Hamilton’s wife? Weeping into the kerchief Monroe had pressed into my hand while offering comfort and strength, I felt as much a stranger to myself as Hamilton was now to me. I scarcely spoke to my husband, beyond that which was necessary for the children’s sake. And I felt too exhausted to care for my own dignity. The need to see Maria Reynolds became a compulsion—perhaps as powerful as the one that led my husband to her in the first plac
e.

  Which was how, after a few discreet inquiries, I found myself at the corner, near the public square, staring up at Maria’s window in the house she shared with men it would be too kind to characterize as genteel boarders. Her curtains had been thrown back, allowing me to watch her brush her long hair. Fair hair. Would it have been better if she’d been a brunette?

  Maria was beautiful. Young. And, overtaken with some sort of madness, I meant to confront her. I would shame her—make her feel the shame I felt. I would demand to know why she’d hurt my family and wrecked my happiness. Pushing through the crowds, I marched up the stairs to her weathered, red-painted door.

  But as I reached for the knocker, the dark spell was broken by the laughter of a little girl coming from her window. Her daughter. A poor innocent child with an unfeeling father, a harlot for a mother, and no future whatsoever.

  Oh, the folly in coming here! It crashed over me in another wave of shame.

  To stoop to converse with a prostitute. To demean myself. If I couldn’t forgive this, then I must forget it. Forget her. And be gone from this place before someone wondered what the wife of the treasury secretary was doing lingering near what must have been known as a bawdy house.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t easy to leave. Not with the parading crowds. I was forced to combat the press of bodies, the scent of sweat, the indifferent shuffling of so many feet, vivid memories of the Doctors’ Riots making me anxious. To break free of the crowd, I’m afraid I wielded my parasol with unladylike force, but there was no fighting the rush of so many.

  Vive la République! Vive la République! Vive la République!

  I was swept along the streets of Philadelphia for half a block before I was rescued—veritably plucked from a churning sea of people—by a very tall, freckled man in an exquisite French suit with fine lace cuffs. “Why, Mrs. Hamilton,” Jefferson drawled, gently pulling me to the relative calm of the corner curbside where he stood with James Madison. “What a surprise to see you here . . .”

  My heart sank. I could think of no two persons I should least like to have discovered me so near to Maria Reynolds. And my mind spun with a persecuted turn, not unlike my husband’s. Hamilton had said that his political enemies lured him into the scandal, and I’d dismissed it as a paranoid and egotistical excuse. But if his foes learned of the affair, they might use it.