He feared he was being hunted. That there were spies in the city. That the Jacobins—and their supporters—were here, in New York. Would such men kidnap young Lafayette and return him to bloody France?
“Almost assuredly,” my husband said when he returned home to find Georges already fast friends with our Philip. The two youths ate heaps of cold mutton and buttered bread while falling into easy conversation at the table. They made a handsome pair, Lafayette’s redheaded son and Hamilton’s brown-haired boy.
After supper, Georges complimented Ana on her songs, saying she might one day sing at the opera house in Paris. And my delighted girl blushed with pleasure from head to toe.
“Why can’t young Lafayette see the president?” I whispered as we watched from across the hall.
My husband grimaced. “Because the French ambassador is refusing to attend Washington’s levees on account of the presence of exiles like Noailles. Jefferson tried to argue that these are public functions and anyone is welcome, but the new French government won’t listen even to him . . . if the ambassador sees Lafayette’s son in Washington’s presence, they might demand we return the boy to France.”
“Those murderous animals can’t have him,” I hissed.
That was something over which I would be prepared to stand and fight. And Alexander rubbed at the small of my back to calm me. “They may argue the president is violating our neutrality by harboring the son of a French traitor—”
“Lafayette is no traitor!”
Alexander hushed me. “Believe me, my love, it afflicts me with as much indignation as you, which is why I’ve been acting the part of a secret go-between. The president wants to embrace young Lafayette, but cannot take the lad in. Not yet.”
“Then we must.”
Unexpectedly, my husband wandered away from me, down into the kitchen. I found him with both hands upon the butcher block, his head hung low.
“Alexander, if the president cannot shelter Lafayette’s son for fear of offending the French, we can. We should. We must. And when I think of how you must have felt when you were his age, coming to this city alone . . .”
Alexander sighed, staring up at me. “Here you are, ready to open your arms to another desperate child for my sake—and this after I’ve done so much injury to your faith in me that you’d cross town with a scrap of paper to verify my fidelity . . .”
So he knew what I’d done. Why I’d gone to an unknown address. And I was filled with shame, wondering what sort of weapon infidelity was that it should repeatedly cut both its perpetrator and its victim long after they’d forgiven one another. “I am sorry.”
With generosity, he waved away my apology. “You’re merely testing the ground with your foot, to make sure it’s solid.” He left unspoken the question, but will you ever be sure of me?
No wonder marriage required a vow before God and witnesses. It was no easy thing. And yet, the struggles somehow made me cherish it more. Made me cherish him more. Made me cherish, too, that we could offer a home to Lafayette’s son.
And not only for my husband’s sake.
If the worst should ever come to pass in our country, I might be forced to send my own children across the sea to safety. I saw in Georges both the untrusting boy my husband had been, and my own son, if the Jacobins had their way. And it made me feel like the protective lioness I’d vowed to be.
I didn’t know Lafayette’s wife, but we were both married to revolutionaries. And we were both mothers. So I was determined to take care of her hunted son, no matter what.
* * *
“THE PRESIDENT WILL not stand for reelection,” Alexander announced as he guided me into his law office. We were supposed to be on the way to a dinner party to be held in the home of his new law partner, Nathaniel Pendleton, and we were both dressed very grandly for the occasion, but he’d insisted we needed to stop to retrieve some papers.
My stomach dropped. Not at the news, for I think I remain one of two people in the entire nation who was not surprised—the other being Martha Washington. No, my foreboding stemmed from knowing that Washington’s presence at the helm of the government was what allowed Alexander to retire. After six long months, we’d finally sent Georges off with our love and best wishes to be received by President Washington. The boy was so studious, helpful, and sensible that it left us both a little bereft to part with him, but I’d also been hopeful that it was the last political crisis in which we’d be embroiled.
Now I feared to be embroiled in another. Absentmindedly shoving teetering stacks of books and papers out of his way, Alexander was despondent. “President Washington says he can no longer endure to be devoured in the prints by a set of infamous scribblers.”
“Who can blame him?” I asked, taking note that one whole shelf of the wall-length bookcase behind Alexander had been devoted to storing the latest gazettes. No one wanted to serve anymore. Not when, under our new government, any man, whether a gentleman or a scoundrel, could say whatever he pleased and print whatever libels he wished without consequence. And the ignorant populists, spewing tobacco juice as they ranted, took full advantage. As if the notion that all men were created equal somehow meant that one need not aspire to knowledge and ability—all distinctions of class, breeding, or merit discarded, all notions of civility deserted.
Months ago, the president had persuaded James McHenry, Hamilton’s old friend and fellow aide-de-camp, to serve as secretary of war. And Mac couldn’t find it within himself to disappoint his old general. But six of the most talented men in America had turned down the post of secretary of state simply because the irrational calumny heaped upon the heads of public officials was so calculated and unrelenting as to put a man and his family in fear for their lives.
The distrust and hatred of anyone who attempted to govern for the benefit of society could drive lesser men than my husband to their knees. And it had once driven my husband there, too.
“Who will replace President Washington?” I asked as I took one of the facing seats, more than a little wary that my husband might feel compelled to put himself forward.
I’d sipped from the cup of glory and found the taste bitter. So I was grateful when he answered, “By seniority, John Adams is the heir apparent. But lacking Washington’s majesty, popularity, and wartime experience, Adams is no fit replacement. Personally, I have always thought his temper too high and . . . unhinged. Still, all reservations must give way to the great object of keeping Jefferson from the presidency.”
The Virginian had bided his time in retirement and become the leader of a genuine political party. They called themselves Republicans, a name that offensively implied the present government was comprised of monarchists. But we still called them Jacobins, since they seemed to have so much in common with the terrorists who controlled France.
They could not be allowed to come to power here. Still, I nearly shook with relief that my husband wouldn’t be the man to oppose them. “Let it be John Adams then,” I said. Alexander puffed out a snort of disgust, so I continued, “Washington’s retirement is the most eloquent answer any man could ever give to those who paint him a monarchist. Someone else must now take the helm. Alexander, if you have faith in a republic where no man is king, then let it be tried.”
Alexander took very little on faith. Certainly not this republic.
He’d never liked the ugly misshapen compromise that had come out of the Constitutional Convention, but no man had fought harder to bring forth a government from that parchment. And perhaps no man knew better how difficult it was to bring such a government into being, or how easily it could all collapse.
Sullenly, he said, “In any case, there is no persuading Washington against it. He’s always been slow to take his ground, but once decided, he cannot be shaken. And he’s determined to leave the presidency.”
I reached across his desk to him. “Then you mustn’t make it any more difficult for him by standing as an obstacle. Besides, John Adams was instrumental in bringing about our inde
pendence and has been the vice president all these years. That’s experience no one else has. He isn’t Washington, but no one is. And that doesn’t mean he can’t succeed.”
Alexander sighed and wound his fingers with mine. “Were you always such a wise woman?”
I sputtered. “Certainly not. I’ve had to become wiser to better fulfill the peculiar duties associated with being the wife of Alexander Hamilton.”
A spark of familiar mischief worked its way into his visage. “Very well, wife of Alexander Hamilton.” He tugged me around to him. “I shall now call upon you to perform one of those peculiar duties.”
Scandalized, I gasped. “Not in your office!”
“Oh, but I insist.” He stood and put me into his chair. I burned with curiosity, having no earthly idea what he might intend. Then my cheeks burned hotter when he withdrew some papers from the secret compartment of his desk and confided an entirely innocent purpose. “The president has asked me to help draft a Farewell Address.”
“Is there no one else capable?” I asked, wondering if Alexander might ever be left to enjoy retirement.
“Madison made an attempt,” he replied, unable to utter the name of his old friend without scorn. “He is, after all, the one who drafted Washington’s inaugural. But, as this is Washington’s last address, the president won’t allow the Republicans to put their stamp on it.” And Madison was a founding member of the new party that stood opposed to the Federalists in all things. Our one-time friend Monroe, too. Both of them Jefferson’s protegés. All of them now aligned in favor of a weak federal government and stronger states’ rights, the very things against which we’d fought for the past fifteen years.
So I understood then. The president’s very last address was a sacred duty.
My husband explained, “The president has asked me to take his own sentiments and ideas, and remove any egotism or partisan sentiments liable to bring criticism. To put all in a plain, simple style.” Alexander threw the papers onto the desk. “You see my difficulty.”
I chuckled because I did. I could think of no man less suited than my husband to write in a plain simple style, without partisan warmth or egotism. Alexander brought the thunder of rhetorical cannons, not the soft refrains of conciliatory prose.
But since he couldn’t refuse, I tried to bolster his spirits. “You wrote for Washington as his aide-de-camp. Surely you remember how. And if you don’t, consider it a stretch of your talents . . . You say Jemmy Madison drafted the inaugural. Well, if he had the first words, I know you’ll want to have the last.”
He laughed. “You saucy wench. This brings me to your part.” Alexander leaned forward so that his hands were on both arms of the chair, seductively caging me in. “My dear Eliza, you must be what Molière’s nurse was to him.”
“Who?” I asked, a little wary that this might turn into another story of some ancient.
Instead, he said, “Never mind. The point is that I must test my words against your good sense.”
My mouth went dry, for I didn’t know whether to be flattered or terrified. Both, I decided, given what he was asking. “You cannot mean this seriously.”
“I trust no one else. I trust your understanding of people. Your goodness and impartial heart.”
“My heart is not even slightly impartial,” I said.
That made him smile. “But you’re fair-minded. How often have you argued with me over the malice I’ve ascribed to others when simpler explanations would do? I need you to argue with me now.”
He was serious. “Have you forgotten we are on our way to Pendleton’s dinner party?”
“I’ve forgotten it entirely,” he said, rising up again to find a pen. “I’ll send a clerk to Fraunces Tavern for victuals to sustain us and we’ll stay here until the candles burn out.”
There was a hint of familiar conspiratorial excitement in his voice now, but I reminded him, with a great deal of hauteur, “As delightful as that sounds, I am in a rare state.” My gauzy evening gown might have been thought scandalous in any other era, but it was the Age of Undress. The fashion was now all empire waistlines and sheer fabrics à la Grec, which would have left me feeling naked without gloves and shawl. “I am dressed to be seen in society, sir!”
With the tip of his quill pen, he flicked my flimsy shawl to the floor. “And now you are not.” He gave his most irresistible smile. “Your country needs you. I need you. You are my good genius of that kind which the ancient philosophers called a familiar.” His eyebrows nearly waggled. “And you know that I am glad to be, in every way, as familiar as possible with you.”
Smitten by his flirtation, I gave a helpless shrug. “Oh well, for the country then . . .”
I forgot about the dinner party. I forgot everything but the familiar thrill of matching minds with the man I married. “Not that line,” I remember telling him. “That business about the ignorance of facts and malicious falsehoods will be taken harshly.”
“That’s the president’s line, not mine,” Alexander protested.
“Nevertheless, it portrays him as a partisan in the mud,” I argued, and our debate went well into the night. In truth, it went on for days as Alexander worked on the address, scribbling words and crossing them out.
Eventually, he removed the line to which I objected. That and many others, taking into consideration my suggestions, leaving me awed with the magnitude of the masterpiece. I knew, even then, that the Farewell Address was a moving and worthy tribute to the United States and its people. A plea for unity. A statement of purpose and guidance for the nation George Washington helped bring into being.
And because of Alexander Hamilton, I had the great and everlasting fortune to be a part of its shaping.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
May the present coolness between France and America produce, like the quarrels of lovers, a renewal of love.
—CHANCELLOR LIVINGSTON
May 1797
New York City
I WAS HAPPY.
I somehow forgot that. In the blazing trail of my husband’s wake, it has been easier to remember the hard times. The wars and the riots. The illnesses and exhaustion. The arguments and betrayals. The things people call history.
But happiness grew in the cracks between great events. I was happy in the little things. In falling asleep beside my husband each night, and waking up in his arms every morning. In walking my boys to the ferry to attend their school on Staten Island. In listening to Alexander and Ana sing duets at the piano. In the sermons at Trinity Church, where we rented a pew. And in the company of my sister Angelica, returned after more than seven and a half years of separation.
Finally, it seemed, I had everything I wanted.
“Angelica!” I called, tearful with joy, waving over the workaday crowd bustling along Broadway in front of her new town house. Upon seeing me, my sister abandoned her baggage, retinue, and children to rush into my arms.
Such was the force of our embrace that her dazzling diamond earrings caught in my dark hair and we were briefly entangled, laughing and crying at the same time. “Just look at you!” Angelica exclaimed, laying both hands atop my pregnant belly. “Have you grown fat with too fond a taste for marzipan or has my brute of a brother begotten another baby upon you?”
“Brute, am I?” Alexander asked, archly, swooping forward in elegant top hat.
Angelica nearly wilted at the sight of him. “Oh, my amiable!” she cried, throwing her perfumed arms around my husband’s neck. “You know I jest. But oh, how naughty you two have been.”
“Very naughty,” I replied, for my sister always brought out my saucy side. “We do love to overindulge . . . in marzipan.”
We were caught up in a gale of laughter when my sister’s brood gathered around us and I gasped at the sight of her eldest son. How in the world had the little boy who spent that frigid winter with us in Morristown grown up to be an outrageously handsome young Englishman?
“Aunt Eliza, I presume,” he said, with a charming, Eton
-educated accent.
“Oh, my darling nephew,” I said, tugging my own boy close. “Meet your cousin, Philip Hamilton.”
Both Philips grinned, mischief in their eyes, as if already wondering which one might best the other in charming the young ladies of New York.
“My friends call me Flip,” my nephew said. “So, it shan’t be difficult to distinguish.”
Our reunion was so deliriously pleasurable that, as we stepped inside Church’s grand new house, I couldn’t seem to stop weeping—a thing I blamed upon pregnancy, but it had more to do, I think, with my most cherished dream to have my sister near. And for that, I had Mr. Church to thank. To please his wife, he’d retired from public service in London and moved their entire family to New York, where they planned to stay.
“Church has changed,” my sister confided later, while our combined family of hooligans ran through the wide halls of her nearly empty house and her new lady’s maid, a slave named Sarah, unpacked her trunks. “For the better.”
“Truly?”
Angelica sighed with apparent contentment as we toured her new home. “By some miracle, we’ve found our way back to love. Isn’t marriage funny that way?” Then she laughed. “Not that you know anything but the delight of marriage, of course! Not you and Hamilton. But for the rest of us . . .”
It made me queasy to realize that I knew of all my sister’s marital troubles, and yet she knew nothing of mine. It hadn’t been safe to confide it in a letter, but to keep it from her now felt almost like a betrayal of the bond we shared. On the other hand, to tell her would seem a betrayal of the man I loved.
And what did it matter, now that it was all in the past?
“A fountain!” Angelica cried as we walked out into her new garden. “You and Hamilton know me so well. You couldn’t have chosen a better house for me, Bets—forgive me, Eliza,” she said with a smile, observing me. I’d written her long ago about my decision to go by the new nickname, but we’d been so long separated that this was the first time she’d seen me in person since I’d made the change. “Old habits . . .”
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