Merrily, Catharine chatted on, “The feast will be grand. We will butcher a hog. We will have eel for stew. My only real worry is getting my hands on enough brown sugar for my family’s traditional wedding cake. I have hoarded some, as have your grandparents, but pulling together a full two pounds’ worth may be challenging.”
“Mama, you mustn’t use up all the family’s sugar on a cake for me,” said Eliza.
“Nonsense, my dear! This is your wedding day. It must be celebrated properly and with joy. Consider half the sugar as having belonged to Angelica. Since she chose to forgo a proper wedding and her devoted parents witnessing it, her amount of sugar rightly goes to you.” Catharine stiffened, clearly kicked by the baby, and muttered, “I cannot believe Angelica is not coming for your nuptials or for Christmas. Surely that husband of hers can manage without her for a few weeks.”
“But what about Peggy?” asked Eliza, ignoring the dig at Angelica. Peggy made her eyes huge and shook her head violently, anticipating what her middle sister would say next. But it was too late, as Eliza added in singsong voice: “You will need to save some sugar for her.”
“Oh?” Catharine sat up, smiling broadly. “Is there something I should know?”
“No, there isn’t!” Peggy’s voice was sharp, despite Eliza smiling at her so hopefully. The hurt of not hearing from Fleury was festering into a gaping wound. Eliza had just rubbed salt into it.
“You will need to curb that tongue of yours, child, to catch a husband,” Catharine chastised. “And stop talking politics so much. Men wish to discuss that sort of thing with other men, not women. Such a pity you do not possess your sisters’ singing voice.”
Peggy glowered at Eliza.
Silently mouthing “I’m so sorry” at Peggy, Eliza tried to repair the damage she’d done. “But Mama, Colonel Hamilton tells me that many officers were quite taken by our Peggy’s eloquence and her charming wit and especially her command of . . . French.” Eliza emphasized the word French as if it were Frenchman, smiling at Peggy in her gentle way of teasing.
“Hmpf. She does have that. Like her papa. Well, let us hope by the time our Peggy is to be wed, the war is over and trade flourishing again. Surely with Rochambeau’s arrival the French and Patriots can end the war by summer.”
Peggy bit her lip from responding to her mother’s criticisms of her and her lack of understanding that the disasters which had decimated the Continental Army in the South during the summer would most likely keep any spring campaigns to simply being desperate fights to regain a toehold in those states. She stared out the window. Peggy knew she should be accustomed to it by now, but she still brushed away a tear of disappointment at her mother’s favoritism for Eliza. She no longer blamed her middle sister for her extra portion of motherly love. Eliza’s gentle spirit deserved all the affection she received. But didn’t Peggy’s loyalty to the family and hard work earn her the same, or at least something equal even if different?
Because she was focusing her gaze to the river, endeavoring to ignore her mother, Peggy heard the sentinel’s muffled cry: “Riders to the house!”
She hugged Cornelia and pointed. “See the men coming. What pretty horses!” She watched the riders, recognizing the navy capes, the dark-blue-and-buff uniforms. After a few moments she could make out faces. “Ooooohh, E-li-za,” she sang. “Guess who?”
Eliza turned white, then pink, and then darted to the bedroom door, knocking over poor Moll in her haste.
“Oh no you don’t!” Catharine hoisted herself up and barred Eliza. “The groom cannot see the bride in her wedding dress before the ceremony.”
Eliza looked like she would burst into tears.
“Oh, Mama,” Peggy said, “tradition be damned. Poor Eliza hasn’t seen Hamilton for months!”
That was a mistake.
Catharine drew herself up to an austere regalness that would shame England’s crowned queen. “We will discuss your language later, Margarita. But for now, I need to dress to meet my new son-in-law. Eliza, you—no, you must do as I say.” Catharine reached out to take hold of Eliza, who was hopping up and down, desperate to make for the door. “You must put on a different dress. You must. Wear that lovely salmon-colored frock.”
Catharine turned to Peggy. “Your papa is in town ordering blankets to be made for the Oneida since they lost everything they had in those raids. Congress, of course, will do nothing for them. He is paying for them himself.” She shook her head and muttered something under her breath. “He will not be back for hours. So, you must greet the colonel. With your best manners, mind you. Take Cornelia with you.”
Orders issued, Catharine swept from the room. Dutifully, Peggy took Cornelia’s hand. Eliza helped Moll up from the floor, begging her pardon and her help in stripping her dress off as quickly as possible! As she headed for the stairs, Peggy could hear Eliza squeal as pins pricked her in her scramble.
Hamilton stood in their wide front hall, hat in hand. Planted on the wall-to-wall floor cloth—painted in large midnight blue and white checks to resemble the grandest of European marble floors—the slender, graceful man looked almost like a statue one would find in a chateau. Motionless, he gazed upward. His eyes wandered over the vaulted ceiling, its richly carved dentil molding, the crystal chandelier, and then down to the elegant wallpaper of hand-painted scenes of Roman ruins that Schuyler had brought back from England. His mouth was hanging slightly open.
For the first time in her life, Peggy felt slightly ashamed of her wealth. Clearly Hamilton had never seen the likes of her family’s mansion before. When she called to him and he turned, she spotted fear in those exquisite violet-blue eyes. No greed, no self-satisfaction or sense of new ownership. Rather, a self-conscious intimidation. He masked it quickly, of course. But Peggy had seen it—pitied it—and she promised herself to remember it in the future when Hamilton aggravated her. She was learning his swagger might be more defensive bluster than actual arrogance.
Out of this kindness for her soon-to-be brother, Peggy ignored the comment of his companion, James McHenry, who whispered before they realized she was nearby, “Well, Hammie, you’ve got it made now.” She was really coming to detest the man.
What a shame McHenry had to be the one to stand by her sister’s groom. But Peggy knew Harrison was in Virginia because his father had died, Meade was getting married himself, and Lafayette was in Philadelphia meeting with Congress. Tilghman had to remain at headquarters with Washington—how that poor fellow must be drowning in papers as the sole aide-de-camp dealing with the work typically handled by five or six men.
Hamilton’s eyes drifted hopefully behind Peggy, trying not to show disappointment that it was she rather than Eliza before him.
“She’s coming,” said Peggy, approaching the men to curtsy, with Cornelia, suddenly shy, hiding behind her.
Hamilton kissed Peggy and then dropped to his knee. “Is this sister Cornelia?” he asked solemnly.
Cornelia peeped out from behind Peggy’s wide skirt to nod.
“I hope we are to become the best of friends,” he said.
“Do you know how to get the ball into a Bilbo catcher?”
He smiled. “No. But would you show me?”
The little girl nodded and darted away to retrieve the toy.
While he was still kneeling, Eliza appeared at the top of the landing, she and her rose-tinted gown bathed in sunshine from its window. Their father had so loved his voyage to England that he had ordered the molding on the stair boards be carved to look like waves, the balusters twisted to resemble ship cables. Schuyler couldn’t have designed a prettier descending stage for his daughter to sail down to embrace her lover, who staggered to his feet, dumbstruck.
Even McHenry sighed.
A week later, on December 14, Eliza and Hamilton pledged their love to each other in the Schuylers’ best parlor. Papered in deep blue and papier-mâché medallions gracing its ceiling, the large room glowed with the hearth’s fire, candlelight, and the irrepressible smi
les of the groom and his bride. All Eliza’s family, save Angelica, stood witness for her, including Aunt Gitty and a beaming Dr. Cochran, who proudly claimed total responsibility for the match. Even the boys stood rapt and quiet as Hamilton slipped onto Eliza’s finger a wedding band of two interlocking rings, one engraved with her name, the other with his.
Missing was Richard Varick. The military court had recently cleared him of any guilt regarding Benedict Arnold’s treason, and the loyal Dutchman had returned to his home in New Jersey. But what kept Varick from traveling to Albany for the nuptials was the fact he had joined his local militia. Determined to still serve, even though now a low-level foot soldier, he was standing watch every other night. Schuyler explained this to Cochran, who’d asked where Varick was.
“But he sends his best wishes to the lucky groom and his bride,” Schuyler said, smiling with pride at Eliza and then at Peggy, adding, “And he hoped that Miss Peggy’s health was excellent.”
Catharine perked up. “Now there’s a worthy gentleman who would make a girl a good husband! Take good aim when you throw the stocking tonight, my dear.” Catharine referred to the tradition of bridesmaids throwing balled-up stockings over their shoulders at the bride. Whoever it hit would be the next to marry.
Rolling her eyes, Peggy took a bite of the wedding cake, refusing to respond.
Catharine had indeed managed to find all its ingredients. The scent of molasses, lemon peel, almonds, raisins, currants, brandy, rum, butter, and a king’s ransom worth of sugar drifting from the outside kitchen for the six hours it baked had set everyone’s mouths to watering. It had been months since any of them had tasted anything sweet. John, Jeremiah, and Rensselaer had already gobbled up two pieces each.
“Oh, Kitty, don’t you know?” tittered Aunt Gitty. “The child’s—”
Cochran had been watching Peggy and spoke quickly to interrupt. “Kitty, this is the best cake I have ever tasted. I could use it to revive dying men on the battlefield, I could. Don’t you think, my dear?”
“Why yes, husband,” Gitty answered, a bit puzzled, and then started to begin again, “The child’s . . .”
“The child is no child, Gitty, and she is sitting right here,” Cochran said, shaking his head slightly.
How Peggy adored her uncle!
“Indeed the lady,” Hamilton chimed in, “has no shortage of suitors, Mrs. Schuyler. Or may I now presume to call you Mother?” His smile was captivating.
Catharine melted and completely forgot what her sister-in-law had been saying.
Peggy would need to thank Hamilton later for that.
As Catharine and he talked, Cochran motioned for Peggy to sit by him on the settee. He took her hand and leaned in. “I know all about your Frenchie, Meaghan-fay-Meaghan. Don’t be misunderstanding me. Thank the Lord for the French. They are good allies. Lafayette is the noblest of men. I would take a musket ball for him. Almost did.”
Peggy started to protest, but he waved her off. “Your Fleury is a brave man. The lads at Fort Mifflin most like would have been slaughtered without his determined refortifying, night after night, as the British tried to blast them to hell. There’s not a man more admirable on the battlefield. But these French noblemen all committed to liberté and égalité?” Cochran snorted. “That’s a bit of a hornet’s nest for them once they go back to their country of aristocrats and king, don’t you think?” He tilted her chin up so he could look into her eyes as he ended, “You wouldn’t want to be living in France now, would you?”
Actually, the idea of traveling to France sounded rather exciting to Peggy! But before she could say so, everyone in the room broke into laughter. McHenry had staggered toward Eliza, his Madeira glass drained, semi-falling to her feet to try to grab her shoe. It was an old wedding game—a way for groomsmen to ransom a bride’s slipper back to her in exchange for a kiss—but Eliza was far too modest a woman to enjoy such frivolity.
Peggy was about to tell McHenry to stop being an idiot when Eliza stood and gracefully stepped aside. “Peggy, dearest,” she said, “would you mind going upstairs to bring my present for”—she paused and smiled happily—“my husband.”
Already, Eliza was different.
Upstairs, Peggy easily found Eliza’s wedding present for Hamilton. She had embroidered a gorgeous linen mat to frame a miniature oval watercolor portrait of him. In rainbow-colored-silk threads, she used all manner of crewel stitches—stem, chain, split, satin, French knots—to create fleur-de-lis corners and twines of blossoms, even tiny butterflies. Flawlessly sewn, the delicate art was a visual symbol of how Eliza planned to focus her life and talents on pointing out Hamilton’s best attributes.
As Peggy picked up the crewelwork, a letter dropped to the floor from underneath it—another of Hamilton’s ardent notes. Peggy reached down to retrieve it and tuck it back into Eliza’s carefully ribboned batch, without reading. She was well past snooping into her sisters’ love letters but her eye fell onto her own name—my Peggy.
Tell my Peggy I will shortly open a correspondence with her. I am composing a piece, of which, from the opinion I have of her qualifications, I shall endeavour to prevail upon her to act the principal character. The title is “The way to get him, for the benefit of all single ladies who desire to be married.” You will ask her if she has any objections to taking part in the piece and tell her that if I am not much mistaken in her, I am sure she will have none.
A play about “the way to get him”? Peggy felt her face turn red. “From the opinion I have of her qualifications”—what did Hamilton mean by that? What was he insinuating? Did he think her an artful actress, her feelings feigned? Or that she was . . . she was . . . actresses were considered nothing short of whores by many people. . . . Did Hamilton think, oh God . . . Peggy softened the words she might have used . . . too openly ardent? Despite his compliments in Hartford?
Then worse thoughts: Had Fleury shared an opinion . . . something indiscreet to Hamilton? Did Fleury think these things?
Hands shaking with confusion and embarrassment, Peggy read the next line, to find it directed at Eliza: For your own part, your business is now to study the way to keep him, which is said to be much the most difficult task of the two . . .
She felt herself almost growling. There he was again, making Eliza feel like she had to earn his continued interest. But the next lines at least reassured Peggy for her sister’s sake: though in your case I thoroughly believe it will be an easy one . . .
Did he say anything else about Peggy? Quickly, she skimmed more.
’Tis a pretty story indeed that I am to be thus monopolized, by a little nut-brown maid like you . . . A spirit entering into bliss, heaven opening upon all its faculties, cannot long more ardently for the enjoyment, than I do my darling Betsey, to taste the heaven that awaits me in your bosom. Is my language too strong? It is a feeble picture of my feelings—no words can tell you how much I love and how much I long—you will only know it when wrapt in each others arms we give and take those delicious caresses which love inspires and marriage sanctifies.
Oh my! Peggy quickly folded the letter up and read no further. No, there was nothing more in that letter that she should read!
But a play? A lesson book for “getting a man”? Wat de hel? Dutch curses aplenty jumped into her head as she hurried to the stairs with Eliza’s crewelwork.
As she descended, Peggy resolved to pull Hamilton aside to ask him about his meaning. But Eliza’s exquisite gift and the beautiful inlaid workbox Hamilton presented her inspired too much praise among the family for Peggy to catch his attention. Before she knew it, the evening was over. Hamilton had retired to the back bedroom with Eliza. The new couple had climbed the ocean of those stairs together, his holding her hand and smiling a gentle, warm reassurance akin to the one Eliza had blessed him with as she coaxed him into a minuet. The look he gave her sister had taken Peggy’s breath.
That night, Peggy felt very alone until little Cornelia clambered out of her trundle bed and asked t
o crawl into Peggy’s large canopy one—the one in which she and Eliza and Angelica had giggled and read and cried and shared their dreams as an inseparable trio, and now never would again.
“It’s snowing,” Cornelia whispered as she nestled against Peggy and fell asleep.
For days, a wondrous happiness of new love permeated the Schuyler mansion. McHenry even wrote a poem that had a few moments of inappropriate innuendo, as Peggy would expect of him, but ended with a pretty hope:
Now genius plays the lovers part;
Now wakes to many a throb the heart;
With ev’ry sun brings something new,
And gaily varies every view . . .
All these attendants Ham are thine.
Be’t yours to treat them as divine;
To cherish what keeps love alive;
What makes us young at sixty-five.
Maybe the Irish aide-de-camp wasn’t such a jackass after all, thought Peggy. She followed his lead in terms of showing deference for the dreamy haze that hung over her sister and forced herself to wait to question Hamilton about the meaning of his note. But as Christmas approached and mail riders came and left, bearing wedding messages from Washington and Lafayette but no letter from Fleury, Peggy began to grow desperate.
It was as if she had imagined all their encounters—that Fleury was purely a figment of her dreams, or a ghost.
Finally, one early morning before others were awake, Peggy found Hamilton in the family’s yellow parlor, writing letters to headquarters. He would return there after New Year’s. “Colonel!” She rushed into the room.
He looked up, surprised. “Alexander,” he corrected her.
But she didn’t return her brother-in-law’s pleasantries. She didn’t think about what consequence there might be to Eliza by revealing to her new husband that Peggy had read one of his love letters—even though Eliza had not knowingly shared it. “I need to ask you, sir, why you think I am appropriate to act a drama designed to teach women how to ‘get’ a man.” She crossed her arms and glared.
Hamilton and Peggy! Page 22
