My Dear Hamilton

by Stephanie Dray

  Perhaps Lafayette was thinking this, too, because the general spoke to me in consolation for my losses and I returned mine for his. And finally remembering the rest of my manners, I presented my Lysbet, who tittered like such a flibbertigibbet, one might think she’d never met a general before.

  But, of course, Lafayette was no mere general. The entire country was poised to give him a hero’s welcome with toasts and spectacles in honor of the forthcoming fiftieth anniversary of the revolution. It was said that in all America there wasn’t a heart that didn’t beat with joy and gratitude at the sound of Lafayette’s name.

  Certainly my heart did.

  Already the city of New York had greeted him with booming cannons due a conquering hero. Which was quite possibly why Lysbet nearly swooned when Lafayette kissed her hand.

  “Mademoiselle Hamilton,” he said to my daughter, his world-weary, haggard eyes crinkling at the corners with his smile. “You must not be shy. Your father was more than friend to me, he was a brother. We were both very young when our friendship formed in days of peril and glory, but it suffered no diminution from time. So you must think of yourself as family to me.”

  The enormity of this statement, if only for what it meant to Lysbet, melted my heart.

  “And you, madame,” he said, turning to me. “You are my sister, and were before you ever met your husband, oui?”

  It was a touching sentiment. One that recalled to me long-ago days in Albany. And though I had brothers of my own, by blood and marriage, I couldn’t help but return it. “I remember, and feel the same.”

  So it shamed me when he nodded and said, “I worried for your health when I did not see you at the welcoming parade. Georges told me no esteemed woman of sense would jostle with a New York crowd in this heat. Mon Dieu, this heat.” Lafayette dabbed at the sweat on his forehead. “But I could not be satisfied of your well-being until I set eyes upon you, myself. As I wished to learn more about your charity work, I tracked you down here.”

  I flushed at the shabby state of my crowded little office, with its decades-old desk and sagging bookshelves, but even more so because I hadn’t been invited to the official celebrations by the Republicans who now held power in government. Given how shamelessly they claimed the mantle of patriotism all for themselves, my presence would have been an inconvenient reminder to everyone of my husband. Or perhaps they’d simply forgotten me as they’d forgotten him.

  But Lafayette hadn’t forgotten.

  And I feared I’d given offense. But before I could offer words that might make up for my absence, Lafayette shook his head. “I hope you do not think to apologize. Especially since I wish to impose upon you for something,” he said, a sly twinkle in his eye.

  “By all means,” I said, gesturing at the chair. “Shall we sit?” I was pained to see him leaning so heavily on his cane as he lowered himself into the rickety seat. “Lysbet, perhaps our guests would enjoy some lemonade?”

  The men exclaimed their thanks, stirring my daughter from where she still stood, riveted at the door. “Oh, right away.”

  “I’ll help you,” Georges said, like the good, dutiful boy he’d always been.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked Lafayette, aware of the flurry of people suddenly finding reason to pass my office door. The matron of the orphanage, checking the lock on the kitchen larder. Our cook, grabbing a broom from the hall closet. A little girl, not at school because she was sick, peeking down from the stairs.

  Lafayette winked at the child, and she scampered away with a delighted giggle. “I am called to America by President Monroe to witness the immense improvements and the prosperity of these happy United States, so I can report back to the world that they reflect the light of a far superior political civilization.”

  Though almost everyone who met Monroe in his younger days had dismissed him for a lackwit, I’d been right about him in at least one respect. There was always, always, more to James Monroe than met the eye. And he’d proven, as president, to be more of a master of national propaganda than any of his predecessors. He’d somehow persuaded the nation that the War of 1812 had been a glorious victory instead of a humiliating stalemate. And now, to drum up support for his new doctrine of superiority in the hemisphere, he presented himself as the last founder of our country.

  If he could somehow wrap himself in Lafayette’s glory and portray southern slave owners as virtuous guardians of liberty, so much the better.

  But our French hero still maintained an independent mind. “I wish to see more than what is on my official itinerary here in New York. I should like you to reveal to me the true United States. What must I see?”

  “Me?” I was most assuredly not part of Monroe’s plans for this visit, the realization of which made me instantly intrigued.

  “Indeed. For while I feel an inexpressible delight in the progress of every thing that is noble-minded, honorable, and useful throughout the United States, I will not look away from the flaws. And, in particular, the status of the Negro raises a sigh, or a blush, according to the company. The measure of a country is, for me, not to be found in prosperity, but in a virtuous resistance to oppression. Even as President Monroe’s guest, I will not miss an occasion to raise the question of slavery and defend the rights of all men. Which is why I presume upon you.”

  My heart beat in sudden excitement that there remained amongst us a patriot willing to stand against Virginian hypocrisy. “I . . . I will do whatever is in my power if you should name it.”

  Lafayette smiled. “I wish to know more about your work here and at the Free School for Young Africans that your husband and the Manumission Society founded for poor children of former slaves. In fact, I would like to tour both with you as my guide.”

  My work.

  During the War of 1812, I’d been too tired to fight for the country anymore. I’d decided that I’d fight only for my children. And for the hundreds of orphans who depended on me. For whatever I had, or had not been, to Alexander Hamilton, my maker had pointed out a duty to me and given me the ability and inclination to perform it.

  My husband had a gift for government, but I had a gift for charity. A talent for it, if there be such a thing. I’d already helped to found a society to care for widows, an orphanage to shelter children, and a school to provide guidance and learning. There was not an aspect of the management for any of these endeavors with which I wasn’t intimately acquainted. I laid cornerstones, raised money, rented property, made visits to the needy, nursed the sick, procured coal, food, shoes, and Bibles. I kept account books, wrote charters, and lobbied legislatures.

  How gratifying that Lafayette should appreciate all that and treat me as a person of moral consequence. A warmth stole through me at the flattering notion that he felt I could guide him in seeing the true America. But for the recognition of my calling, I felt more honored than I could ever remember being. More energized, too, as if remembering myself after a long slumber.

  * * *

  “MARQUIS, MAY I present to you our instructors and students,” I said, introducing him to the gathered ladies and rows of smiling public school children at the African Free School, all wearing Lafayette badges made of satin ribbon, each straining to catch a glimpse of the great man. Our tour of the orphanage had been short but had allowed me to send someone ahead to prepare the school administrators for this little assembly. And that someone was Mrs. Fanny Anthill Tappan—my adoptive daughter, now returned to New York all grown and happy with a husband and children of her own. For years now, it’d been a balm to have Fanny in my busy life again, and her eagerness to assist in my charitable work filled me with pride.

  Bracing upon his cane, Lafayette kissed both of Fanny’s cheeks in the French style, then he walked the length of the gathering, greeting every child. “What a bright, industrious group of pupils,” he said.

  “The original Free School for Africans was only one room, and could admit only forty students,” I explained as we toured the new buildings, in which were e
ducated more than seven hundred of the best and brightest. “The English headmaster finds these black children every bit as capable as white children.”

  Lafayette didn’t seem surprised. “I regret that my own efforts to emancipate slaves in the French colonies was forestalled . . .”

  He trailed off there, his mind seeming to retreat to a dark place, and I worried it was the darkness of his old prison cell. To draw him back, I said, “There’s still more to be done, but our state legislature passed a law of gradual emancipation, and complete abolition is nearly accomplished. It cannot happen soon enough.”

  Though I’d long been a convert to the cause of abolition, I hadn’t before spoken in public against the national cancer. And Lafayette’s presence encouraged me. No longer needing to measure my words for fear of how they might affect my husband’s political career, I felt a freedom to say exactly how disillusioned I was. “In the South, the vile institution of slavery spreads like a contagion. Such is inevitable when the country has been run these past twenty years by presidents and congresses elected by the counting of slaves as three-fifths of a person for the purpose of representation, while not otherwise counting them as a person at all. The South doubly reaps the benefits of slavery at the expense of fairness, morality, and liberty.”

  Lafayette turned an appraising smile on me. “I hear something of the passion of Hamilton in your speech, madame.”

  Heat infused my cheeks as I struggled with the complicated emotions dredged up by the comparison, but fortunately, a gaggle of awed children swarmed the general, distracting him from my reaction to words which were, at once, the highest praise and a painful reminder.

  Finally, Lafayette escorted me outside and turned to me with fondness. “You do good work here, Elizabeth. You will perhaps finish what we started.”

  I tilted my head. “What we started?”

  “The revolution. It is unfinished. Maybe liberty must always be fought for. And you have kept fighting when others laid down their swords in defeat, or exhaustion, or corruption.”

  “I’m afraid you misjudge me,” I said, feeling an ache of shame in my breast. “I stopped fighting long ago.”

  Lafayette gestured at the school behind us. “Then what is this school? What is your orphanage? These things seek to expand the promise of America. To give opportunity to all as free citizens.”

  Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes as my ache of shame melted into recognition. I’d not thought of my work as more than charity. But it always had been. Whatever I told myself, I never stopped trying to finish what we started when we were all so young and idealistic about what this nation could be.

  “Would that my friend was here to help you.” Lafayette sighed. “Will you take me to see him? I wish, with your blessing, to lay a wreath upon Hamilton’s grave, but there is no ceremony planned for it.”

  Of course, no ceremony had been planned. For years now, even I had shied away from the monument in Trinity Churchyard where my husband was buried. I made any number of excuses for my reticence. The distressing reminder of my losses; the spectacle of people looking at me when I knelt beside the stone. The fact that I’d suffered for a public life and didn’t wish my most private grief to be exposed. All these things were true, of course, but the real reason I didn’t go was because both Angelica and Alexander were buried there.

  For ten years, I’d hid the festering wounds of my suspicions from everyone, in every way I could. My greatest failing in that endeavor had been with William, who was, I’d learned, never fooled by my facade. He’d seen his father’s letters to my sister and, worse, he’d seen me laid low. It’d changed something in him to have the heroic image of his father shattered. And we’d lost him over it. He’d withdrawn from West Point and gone west, as far as he could go from civilization, all because I couldn’t leave a matter alone. So I didn’t intend to reopen it now. “You have my blessing to go to the grave, of course, General, but I’ve already taken too much of your time. Your public is waiting.”

  “Let them wait,” Lafayette said, offering me his arm. “Hamilton is more important.”

  Having no way to refuse him without exposing myself, I took his arm, but anxiety seized me as we made the short carriage ride to Trinity Churchyard. “For your itinerary,” I said, hoping to distract myself from the clawing dread, “there are other benevolent societies you might visit, almshouses and the great hospital, too. You might take in the Trumbull painting at the Academy of Arts, and I’ve no doubt the Society of the Cincinnati would host you for—”

  “Dear sister, is it so strange that I wish to visit graves?”

  “Oh. No, of course not,” I said, swallowing down the nerves that had me rambling.

  Lafayette’s shrewd gaze told me he sensed something amiss, and I was relieved he didn’t press the point. “As a young man, I would have thought so. But then, I did not expect to live this long.”

  “Considering the way you’ve habitually thrown yourself into danger for the cause of liberty, it is rather a miracle that you’re still alive.”

  “You are not the first to say so.” He chuckled, but then his smile faded. “Is it too painful for you to visit Hamilton’s graveside?”

  “No.” I folded my gloved hands in my lap. Then, unable to withstand his scrutiny, I finally admitted, “Yes, it’s painful. But a duty too long neglected.”

  “I understand,” Lafayette said with a sympathetic nod. He couldn’t possibly understand, but I smiled politely. “After all these years, I go too little to visit where my Adrienne sleeps her final sleep.”

  I realized, almost with a start, that he’d been a widower nearly as long as I’d been a widow. “Is your wife buried far from where you now reside?”

  Lafayette nodded, his eyes going to the window. “She wanted to be buried with her family. A mass grave in Paris, where, after being guillotined for the misfortune of noble blood and a relation to me, the bodies of her loved ones were dumped. It is sometimes too difficult for me to go where I must bear the weight of it upon my shoulders. Instead, I made a shrine of Adrienne’s room, still as she left it, and where it seems I am less separated from her than anywhere else.”

  This sentiment was familiar to me, having myself sought in vain for the essence of Alexander in this world. And I was moved by the raw pain in his voice for a loss experienced nearly twenty years before.

  Unfortunately, his embarrassment at having betrayed that pain was obvious and he pleaded, “S’il vous plaît, pardonnez-moi. It is only that I wished many times to show my wife this country, and now, here I am without her, welcomed in a manner that exceeds the power to express what I feel. Thus I cannot resist an opportunity to confide my anguish to a friend who can understand.”

  I could understand. I once pored over my husband’s letters every night, trying to recall the inflections of his voice. And every morning, gazed upon his portraits and bust, trying to remember the lines of his face. “General, you must never ask forgiveness for confiding in me. I know this same unhappiness well.”

  He let out a breath of relief. “It was worse in the beginning. Having married so young, I was so much accustomed to all that she was to me that I did not distinguish her from my own existence. I knew that I loved her and needed her. But it was only in losing her that I finally see the wreck of me that remains. Now, I am not unsatisfied with my excellent children or friends, but I recognize the impossibility of lifting the weight of this pain. This irreparable loss.”

  “Yes,” I whispered, because emotion rose like a knot in my throat as he eloquently echoed my own feelings. My whole life had been fused with my sister and my husband, and having lost them both to death and betrayal, I also lost myself. I put my hand upon Lafayette’s and whispered, “You must believe that your loving wife wouldn’t wish you to carry this weight.”

  Though Lafayette didn’t look at me, the corner of his lips hinted at a smile. “No, she would not. My sweet companion was a forgiving woman and an angel who, for thirty-four years, blessed my lif
e.”

  It was the word angel, spoken so reverently, that triggered a memory of Alexander whispering it against my hair, my ear, my neck. And my mind threw up a now familiar defense against these memories whenever they assaulted me.

  It was all a lie. You never knew him. You never knew him at all.

  Perhaps that was why I murmured, with something akin to envy, “You may at least take consolation that after so many years of happy marriage, you achieved perfect knowledge of one another.”

  At this, Lafayette roared with sudden laughter. “Perfect knowledge! Mon Dieu, my wife kept secrets to the very end. Do not ask me to reveal them, but they confound me to this day. Just like a woman.”

  I blinked, thinking that it wasn’t only women who could keep confounding secrets. And it occurred to me like a bolt from the blue that I was sitting next to the only man alive who might know the answers to any of the questions that burned through the fabric of my very soul.

  Lafayette would understand.

  That’s what Alexander had said to me upon the death of John Laurens. The only words he would say, in fact. The thought that the general might’ve been aware of the true nature of my husband’s relationship with Laurens made heat sear its way from the tips of my ears to my toes, leaving me in unbearable mortification.

  “Are you unwell, madame?”

  For a moment, I couldn’t answer, for fear of what I might say. What I might ask. What accusations I might make. None of it matters, I told myself. There was no longer any possible reason to care. The opposite of love, I thought, was not hatred, but indifference, and for my own survival, I’d made my heart indifferent to Alexander Hamilton.

  There was nothing but humiliation to be gained by asking questions.

  Nothing to be gained by caring at all.

  “It’s only the heat,” I said by way of excuse, schooling my features into politeness as the soaring steeple of Trinity Church came into view.

  * * *

  ALEXANDER HAMILTON

  THE PATRIOT OF INCORRUPTIBLE INTEGRITY.