My Dear Hamilton

by Stephanie Dray

  That was not the standard closing. The word remain leaped out to me, as if Madison had meant it in wistful recollection of friendship lost. Alexander must’ve thought so, too, for him to have kept it locked away, separate from his other papers. It wasn’t much to cling to, I admit. But it gave me hope.

  Mac was decidedly less sanguine. “I don’t think you know what you’re up against, Mrs. Hamilton.”

  “I doubt any of us did when we joined the revolution,” I countered, for sometimes it seemed as if it was one long war we were still fighting. And I couldn’t help but remember when we were young and hopeful members of General Washington’s military family. Alexander Hamilton. John Laurens. Tench Tilghman. Mrs. Washington. All of them gone now, only a few of us still surviving.

  And I wondered if Mac was thinking of them too, because he grew wistful, adjusting himself in his seat with the use of his cane. “I know my pangs must be a wee drop in the ocean of your tears, but to this day, whenever the post comes, I somehow always think I’ll find a letter from Hamilton . . .”

  I smiled softly, as it consoled me to hear it somehow. “Alas, we must content ourselves with the letters he sent in life. And I feel as if it has become the whole of my existence to hunt them down.”

  “It must be wearying,” Mac said. And I didn’t think he meant only the hunt for Alexander’s papers. Like my husband, James McHenry had dedicated the better part of his life to public service and been vilified for it. Maybe that’s why he took my hand into his and clasped it tight. “Especially as you have suffered so many losses, Eliza.”

  Though my eyes misted at his sympathy, I swallowed back my grief lest it consume me. “I do not forget that others have suffered, too. I was so sorry to hear of your daughter’s passing . . .”

  Mac shook his head but squeezed my hand tighter. “An ailment of the lungs, it was. Nothing I could do for her . . . and your eldest daughter?” he inquired, delicately, for he was privy to Ana’s troubles. “Have they found a cure for her?”

  “No,” I said, my heart bleeding even as I resigned myself to it. “We still visit Ana, but she no longer recognizes us. She’s trapped in the past, but at least she’s happy there.”

  “That is a consolation,” he agreed, gazing at me with sympathy. And then we both managed a bittersweet smile. “Do you ever—” He broke off, then forced himself to start again. “You’re still very handsome, you know. Bright and lively as ever.”

  I flushed to receive such a compliment in my fifty-second year.

  But Mac’s purpose was not to flatter. “In my younger days, I argued the equality of the sexes,” he said. “But the world is more difficult for women now, I think. Have you never considered marrying again? Some quiet, lazy man of inherited wealth who knows nothing of politics or war? Or a fat funny fellow to talk nothing to you but business and bagatelles?”

  I laughed. Of course I laughed. But I realized there was a serious question beneath the jest. Mac was the only person ever to dare ask. And maybe the only person who could ask. He’d been witness to our courtship. Attended our wedding. He knew how much I loved Alexander and only wanted happiness for me. And having contributed to the secret trust fund that had enabled the survival of my family, he understood, too, all the ways in which a new husband might secure for me an easier existence.

  But I remembered what I said to Alexander when he professed jealousy that I should wear a pendant with Washington’s name near my heart.

  Near to my heart, but not inside it, for there is room there for no man but you.

  That was still true. And in answer to Mac’s question, I didn’t hesitate. With a shake of my head, I said, “No. I could never consent to remarry. There could never be another man for me.”

  How could there be? I hadn’t married a man. I’d married a mythic hero who’d driven a carriage of the sun across the sky. No other husband could ever measure up and it would be cruel to make any man try.

  “I understand,” Mac replied with a sympathetic sigh. “I only hoped to divert you from tilting at windmills.”

  You think I’m a fool—a romantic Don Quixote tilting at windmills.

  I smiled to hear the echo of my husband’s words. “Well, since Hamilton cannot tilt any longer, those of us who loved him must do it for him.”

  “Then this is just the place to do it,” Mac said as we crossed a bridge over the Eastern Branch of the Potomac. “Welcome to Washington, Mrs. Hamilton.”

  * * *

  OUR NATION’S CAPITAL was not yet a city. At least not to my eyes.

  It was little more than a loose collection of urban landmarks laid upon a rural landscape, with wide muddy lanes—a jarringly humble place for the seat of a federal government. Nothing so grand as Philadelphia, or New York, or even Baltimore. And only two sections of the proposed congressional building were complete. There was no dome as you’d see today. And yet, I couldn’t help but wonder what Alexander would have thought of this place. Would my husband have seen the potential in the half-finished buildings and the architecture that recalled the ancients he loved so well? Or would he think it a clumsy, monstrous effort built upon the backs of the Negro slaves we saw in wretched circumstances upon every street corner?

  Given that Jefferson had ruled over the city for eight long years, it didn’t surprise me to find no monuments, statues, or even placards honoring my husband. But I searched in vain for even the equestrian statue that was supposed to have been erected in honor of George Washington.

  Not enough funds for it, I was told by a passerby.

  And I was to hear that refrain again, at least a hundred more times as we paid call upon legislators, one by one, asking them to take up the cause of reinstating my husband’s benefits. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hamilton. There aren’t enough funds for it.”

  Perhaps that was true, since the most rabid Republicans always denied the reality that a government requires tax money to accomplish anything.

  And yet they’d found the funds to refurbish and decorate the President’s Mansion. I believed it wasn’t the expense that prevented them from granting my husband’s benefits. It was the resistance of enemies who insisted, even now, that Alexander had never truly been American.

  “The Republicans won’t give an inch,” Mac admitted after having spoken to a few friends on my behalf. “They might make an exception for another hero of the revolution. They’d feel a pang of sympathy in their hearts. But not Hamilton.”

  Not Hamilton. Not the so-called arch-intriguer, grand master of mischief, and evil genius of America who had dared to forge a strong central government at the expense of the states.

  “Thank you, Mac,” I said, trying to remain serene while sipping at my tea in the quiet of the boardinghouse parlor where we sat together. “Unfortunately, I’m long accustomed to the hostility of these Jacobins. Or Democratic-Republicans. Whatever they’re calling themselves now. Even New York has become infested with them.”

  And they were so afraid my husband’s ideas might flourish that they were willing to deny me my widow’s pension. I didn’t know whether to be disgusted or pleased that even in his grave, my dear Hamilton remained, in the minds of many, a dangerous man.

  So I was surprised when Mac murmured, “It’s actually the Federalists that are your trouble.”

  Startled, I set down my teacup before I dropped it. “The Federalists?”

  Mac rubbed his sore knee, seemingly unable to meet my eyes. “There are those who still blame Hamilton for our party’s collapse. We’ve lost three presidential elections in a row.”

  “And how precisely could that be my husband’s fault? Even his reach does not extend beyond the grave.”

  “It does,” Mac explained. “They blame Hamilton for revealing that John Adams is a bit of a madman. They think he cost us the presidency. Then he gave it to Jefferson. Nearly all of the party leaders fear that so long as the Federalists are associated with your husband, we can never win another election, so they won’t take up your cause. They’d rather be
the party of George Washington and they fear you’re going to spoil it for them.”

  I took up my teacup again, with disdain. “By reminding the world that Hamilton existed?”

  He shook his head. “The rumor in Federalist circles is that you’re trying to revive your husband’s legacy at Washington’s expense.”

  That was preposterous. And deeply offensive. “A malicious lie! How could I do such a thing even if it were my aim?”

  “It’s said that you intend to claim, in your husband’s forthcoming biography, that Hamilton wrote Washington’s Farewell Address.”

  “He did write it. With the president’s notes, of course. How could that possibly put Washington in a bad light? You were an aide-de-camp, too. Did the letters you wrote for the man take away from his greatness?”

  Mac raised his hands. “It’s not me you have to convince.”

  I knew that. Mac had not only scoured his attic for Hamilton’s papers but ridden—or at least rolled—into battle with me here in Washington City. And yet, we hadn’t found even one congressman in either party brave enough to bring my cause to the floor.

  Having listened, with seething disgust, to all McHenry reported to us, my eldest son had heard enough. “Mother,” Alex said, running a hand through his reddish hair. “We are not to have satisfaction here. Let’s go home.”

  Perhaps he had the right of it. And yet, I couldn’t convince myself to surrender. The Republicans had killed Alexander Hamilton and the Federalists wanted to bury him. And now, it seemed, I’d have to fight them all, like the politician my husband had helped me become. “Well, if reviving Alexander Hamilton is bad for Federalists at the ballot box, perhaps I might find at least one Republican willing to help me.”

  When I explained my plan, Mac laughed like a leprechaun. “My dear lady, you combine the innocence of the dove with the wisdom of a serpent.”

  * * *

  “YOU’RE CERTAIN?” MY son asked, as if we were to enter a lion’s den instead of the whitewashed, neoclassical building with ionic pillars that was the President’s Mansion.

  I’d been so long in exile from public life that three inaugurations had taken place here without my having witnessed them. And the palms of my hands began to sweat.

  You’re Alexander Hamilton’s wife, I reminded myself. I was the widow of the man who created this government. I wouldn’t allow them to make me feel as if I didn’t belong. So I girded my loins to sally forth like a vagabond knight-errant, trusting in Providence for my success. “I’m certain.”

  Together, Alex and I alighted the stairs amongst Republican ladies in fashionable high-waisted white gowns, and well-dressed gentlemen with gold-buttoned tailcoats, diamond-encrusted watch fobs, and ivory-tipped walking sticks.

  Whereas I, the wife of the so-called High Pontiff of Federalism, wore only a simple black evening gown.

  And yet, my resentments at their hypocrisy softened the moment I set eyes upon Dolley Madison—not seated upon a dais where guests might deliberate over how deeply to bow—but in the midst of the sunny, yellow-damasked parlor, mingling with the crowd.

  I hadn’t been intimate with Dolley in more than fifteen years, but it still amused me to recall the day she confided that her passionate and honey-tongued beau was none other than James Madison. Now, in pearl necklace, earrings, and bracelets, with feather-plumed turban, she looked more like a queen than a Quaker.

  And she was almost pressed to death by people wanting a word with her. Dolley had been midconversation when our eyes met, and she broke into an astonished smile that somehow made me instantly glad I’d come. Abandoning her other guests, she rushed to me, taking both my gloved hands. “We’re honored by your visit, Mrs. General Hamilton!”

  At the sound of my name, all eyes swiveled to us under the brightly blazing bronze Argand lamps. And I lifted my chin. “Thank you for welcoming me to your levee, Lady Madison.”

  I attempted a curtsy, but Dolley held fast to my hands, refusing to allow it. “We call them drawing rooms, now,” she corrected gently. “And Lady Madison? Goodness. Let there be no formality between friends.”

  She said this, of course, to distinguish herself from Martha Washington and Abigail Adams—the supposedly monarchical Federalist ladies who preceded her. But she’d also called me a friend, putting so much emphasis on the word that no one could miss it. “Just who is this handsome young man?”

  Surprised at the warmth in her gaze, I nodded to Alex, who stood as stiffly at my side as a sentinel on parade. But before I could introduce my son, I caught sight of the president.

  Oh, how the man had aged!

  Poor Jemmy Madison had become a withered little apple-john, and cut a figure quite at odds with the supposed majesty of the presidency. But if I was startled by Madison’s appearance, he seemed even more startled at my son’s. Madison had, upon a single glance, abandoned all the important gentlemen in the room, to stare at my fair and freckled son, as if mesmerized by a face he hadn’t seen in years.

  At the president’s approach, I finally did curtsy. “Mr. President, I present my son, Alexander Hamilton, the younger.”

  With an acknowledging nod, as if coming to his senses, Madison grabbed my son’s hand and shook it vigorously. “Well met, young Hamilton. I remember when you were only as high as your mother’s knee. And look how you’ve grown. Tell me how you make your way in this world.”

  “In the law, sir,” Alex replied.

  President Madison nodded. “Of course, it would be the law, wouldn’t it?”

  Impudently, Alex said, “I’m told it’s my inheritance.”

  His only inheritance, he meant. But Madison seemed to miss the bitter implication. And to my surprise, the president’s blue eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Indeed it is your inheritance, young man. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, your father possessed intellectual powers of the first order, integrity, and honor in a captivating degree.”

  To hear this genuine praise for my husband from the lips of a rival was nothing short of astonishing. And the terror that had been coiled inside me in the six long years since my husband’s death slowly unwound.

  James Madison will not murder my children.

  Of that I was sure. And a rush of hope warmed my breast. I hadn’t made a mistake in coming here. James Madison was the one Republican I needed.

  “Sir,” I said, drawing closer. “I’ve such fond memories of watching you work at my dining room table with my dear Hamilton. In Philadelphia, in New York—”

  “I recall those days very well, madam,” the president replied. “And all you were obliged to put up with besides, with little children underfoot, and our comings and goings at all hours . . .”

  We both smiled in remembrance, which emboldened me to mention the biography and ask if he had kept any of my husband’s papers. “I realize it’s a great deal of trouble—”

  “It is no trouble at all,” said the president, promising to deliver copies to me of my husband’s notes.

  I’d not expected this easy agreement—in fact I worried this would be a promise swiftly forgotten in the frenzy of business that occupied a president’s mind. But I was encouraged when Madison put a hand on my son’s shoulder, and whispered into his ear.

  And Alex—my always earnest, twenty-three-year-old son—actually laughed for the first time in years. He blushed, too, to the tips of his freckled ears, as if the president had said something bawdy. And just like that, Jemmy Madison charmed another of my sons. “Young Hamilton, if the ladies will excuse us, I should like to introduce you to some influential gentlemen.”

  Both the president’s wife and I quickly nodded our assent. Then Dolley looped her arm through mine as we watched the men go. “How like Hamilton he looks.” I only smiled, suddenly too emotional to speak. “And how swiftly they grow up! My little Payne is eighteen now. No longer banging on copper pots but causing trouble all the same at his boarding school.”

  I laughed. “With five sons, and all the orphans now under my car
e, I’m well acquainted with such antics.”

  “Indeed,” Dolley said with a sigh that reminded me she’d never been able to give Madison the gift of a child after all. Then, as if to shake herself free of that disappointment, she said, “Let me show you the President’s Mansion.”

  With that, Dolley led me into the oval room, where I expected to see French furniture, an homage to the revolution the Jeffersonians so admired. Instead, I found the style very different. “Greek?” I guessed.

  Dolley’s plume bobbed with her nod. “Yes. Because the Greeks were free. Every citizen thought himself an important part of the republic.” A sentiment that I would never argue against. “Do you see those curtains?”

  I nodded, because I could scarcely fail to notice the vivid red velvet draperies that so dramatically gave the impression of blazing splendor. Dolley ran her fingertips over the soft fabric. “I insisted on these, over every man’s objections. I’ve become quite the libertine. And I suppose I have you to thank for encouraging me to embrace my destiny as Mr. Madison’s wife.”

  She seemed much happier in her role as first lady than any of her predecessors. And much happier, I knew, than I would have been in her place. So I didn’t hesitate to tell her a story that was making the rounds. “Do you know what our Federalist candidate said when asked how he lost the election to your husband?” Dolley stiffened, as if expecting a partisan barb. But my story was a compliment. “He said, ‘I was beaten by Mr. and Mrs. Madison. I might have had a better chance if I faced Mr. Madison alone.’”

  We laughed at that together. And we sat for quite a while reminiscing. There was once a time when Dolley was the needy widow, and I’d helped her. Now I hoped she’d help me in return. I’d prepared an argument. Partisans would accuse me of greed, assuming that Alexander had stolen so much money from the treasury that I must now be living in luxury. I couldn’t admit my husband had died deeply in debt. And even if I did admit it, the most rabid Republicans might deny my request for a veteran’s benefits out of spite. So I confided to Dolley only, “My farmland provides me no more than seven hundred fifty dollars a year. And though I have a roof over my children’s heads and food in their bellies, we’re beholden to the generosity of others. In exchange for the service my husband provided this government, does it not seem just that his children are recompensed?”