by Diana Rubino
“Of course.” He always knew that was my favorite.
“Alex, I was so very, very sorry to hear of Philip's death. I did send you a note of condolence and hope you received it.” I needed to get this out of the way before we spoke of anything else.
His eyes saddened and looked away. “Thank you. Of all my sons, he was the one most like me in every way, poised to follow in my footsteps. Only when the shock wore off did I realize he could have died no other way but on the field of honor.”
“But—dueling, Alex? God, it should be illegal!” I shuddered at that barbaric custom: gentlemen shooting each other at point blank range.
“It is illegal here. That is why they go to New Jersey. But twas Philip's destiny. If only he'd lived he would have followed in my footsteps. But it was not to be.” He bowed his head and continued softly, “His birthday was eleven days after mine. We always celebrated them together. He would have been twenty-three this past January.” His voice broke with emotion.
Twenty-three. The age I'd been when Alex and I began our love affair. I looked at him and for the first time, I saw those beautiful eyes fill with tears. Although my heart broke for his loss, I felt it best to stay quiet and let him speak again.
With a deep sigh and a quick swipe of his eyes, he met my gaze. “So, how is Susan?” Somehow he knew my daughter's name.
My lovely girl brought a smile to my lips. “Very well. She's visiting my sister in Poughkeepsie at present.”
“I know she's eleven now,” he stated. “Whom does she look like?”
I tried to halt the smile but didn't quite make it. “Me.” But with her copper hair and violet eyes, I knew—Alex was Susan's father.
“Good for her.” His grin came easily enough.
“I never meant to lose complete touch, Alex.” I owed him this explanation. “When Jacob and I left Philadelphia, and I had the baby, our lives just—”
“Tis all right,” he saved me from having to expound further.
But there was something I needed to know. “Would you like to meet Susan some time?”
Without hesitation, he said, “Yes, I would.” His eyes focused on some faraway point in the distance. My surprise and dumbfoundedness gave way to unspeakable sadness.
As I expected, he moved closer. He put down his glass, took mine, wrapt his arms round me and brought my head to his shoulder.
“It feels as if not a moment passed since we last held each other like this,” he whispered into my ear, his lips close enough to ravish me, yet he did not make a move to attempt a kiss.
“I know.” Altho he did not look quite the same, now in my arms he felt the same.
“We are alone here, Maria. Say the word and I am yours today, tonight—for as long as you want me.” His voice regained the husky rumble that always drove me wild. I even detected a trace of that Tricorn cologne. It brought back vivid memories.
We both knew our love had never died, and we had unfinished business we could continue, here and now. But I knew better than to act on it.
“How old are you, Alex?” I asked.
“Forty-nine.”
“And I am thirty-eight,” I stated. “Far too old to indulge in any unquenched desires.”
“Is that the only reason?” He ran his fingertips over my cheek.
I lifted my head from his shoulder. “No. I am very happy with Jacob. Another liaison together would not be the wise thing to do.”
“You are right. It would be downright foolish and reckless. I'm sorry I ever suggested it.” He shook his head, regret dragging his voice down. “But I never stopped loving you, Maria.”
“Nor I you. And always wondered what if…”
“Never mind what if,” he cut me off. “We are here now. We can make the best of this fleeting moment or not.”
I closed my eyes and kissed the love of my life. But this time I harbored no fantasies, clung to no dreams of a future together, of leaving spouses, of rising above scandal and ridicule. All we had was now.
When we parted an hour later, as I was to meet Jacob at Fratello's Restaurant, I considered inviting Alex to join us for dinner. But when I realized I still could not tear my gaze from him, I refrained. Sitting through an evening of chitchat about politics and music—all the while pretending—would be too painful to bear.
But oh, how I longed to see him again!
As if he'd read my mind, he asked, “When will you be back in the city?” We stood in his doorway, our hands still clasped, neither of us having the willpower to let go.
“Any time,” I answered too eagerly. “I am only in Westchester.”
“We can plan a day, say—early next week, I can clear my schedule.” He took a breath, “And do bring Susan…” He let the suggestion trail off to float through the air.
“Not unless you are absolutely sure,” I said.
“Of course I'm sure,” he replied.
With a definite date to meet here next Monday at noon, I tore myself away, hurried down the steps and went to meet my husband.
Westchester, New York
July 12, 1804
I sat in the music room tuning my violin. Jacob entered and rushed up to me. “Maria, did anyone come by?” His voice and hands trembled, crushing the newspaper he held.
“No, what for?” Knowing something terrible had happened, I stood. The violin slid to the rug. “Jacob, what happened?”
He ran his hand over his face. “Maria—Hamilton is dead.”
Jacob became a blur before me. I could no longer stand. He caught me as my knees gave way. I sank onto the sofa. “My Hamilton?” I blathered, unable to comprehend exactly what he'd said.
“Yes. He died yesterday.”
“You—you sure it wasn't his son?” Oh, please, God…
“No, my dear. Alexander Hamilton, the former Treasury Secretary.”
“Oh, God, no. How—what—what happened?” I stammered.
“He and Aaron Burr had a duel in Weehawken. Burr wasn't hurt. But his bullet hit Hamilton and lodged in his spine. He lingered in agony and expired yesterday. I heard some men talking with the tailor just now. I took a newspaper that verified it.” He held the paper out hesitantly, as if afraid to hand it to me. “I'm so sorry, Maria. If you want to attend the service alone, I'll understand.” When he saw I couldn't move, he placed the paper on the table and left the room.
Struck numb with shock, I could not speak, the devastation so great, I could not even sob. I shut my eyes and his vision came to me, clear as if he were sitting here, his violet eyes, his calm voice…
A duel? How could he be so insane? And with Aaron Burr? Our vice president? It didn't seem real to me. I expected Jacob to run back in and tell me it was all a big joke.
I took the paper and flung it across the room. I could not bear to face it right now, glaring up at me in print. I just wanted a few more moments to believe it couldn't be true.
July 14th
Struck numb with shock, the entire nation mourned, but New York City displayed an outpouring of unspeakable grief. Citizens wore black arm bands, stores and offices closed, forlorn church bells tolled since daybreak. The streets filled with citizens paying their respects to our great Founding Father, statesman, the man I'd never stopped loving.
As I walked to Trinity Church in the early morning mist, ships slumbered in the harbor, their flags at half mast. I arrived at the church early enough to get a seat, long before the funeral procession arrived. Inside, I would be spared the state funeral, for I couldn't bear the sound of the muffled drums, the riderless horse with Alex's empty boots and spurs reversed, pallbearers carrying his casket, the throngs of mourners jamming the streets, windows, rooftops…
The church was already half full when I entered. I slid into a back pew, wanting to blend in with the shadows, unnoticed. As I sat on the hard bench, my wadded handkerchief between my clasped hands, I remembered all the beautiful moments we'd shared. Memories I'd cherish till my final hour.
As the service dragged on, the church became swelte
ring. I spent at least two hours with the handkerchief pressed to my face, to ward off the smell of unwashed bodies. When I almost fainted from the heat, the service ended. I slipt out and gulped the hot sticky air, but compared to the fetid odors inside, it greatly refreshed me.
Mrs. Hamilton exited the church garbed in a black bombazine dress, de rigueur for widows. On the arm of her oldest son, she walked with her head up, bearing her grief like a brave banner.
I pushed my way through the crowd and approached her. “Mrs. Hamilton—I am so sorry.”
I half expected her to slap me square in the face. In her grief, who knew what her reaction would be? But this was something I had to do.
“Maria, I knew you'd be here.” She slid her arm from her son's and gestured for him and her other children to stand by. She clasped my hand and led me away from the milling crowd.
“I planned to tell you this someday, Maria, but never thought it would be this soon. You loved him in a way I never could. And he loved you—in a way he never loved me. For that short time, he was truly happy. I knew he had someone else but didn't want to admit it to myself. Finding out he had a mistress wasn't such a shock, but I was surprised it was you.”
“No, you are his wife of twenty-four years and gave him six children,” I quickly corrected her. “I could never have given him that.”
She looked into my eyes and dabbed at tears with a lace hankie. “But you gave him what I never could. Romantic love, companionship, respite from his endless work. For that I will always be grateful, and because I knew you would be here today, I give you this.” She reached into her purse and took something out. She pressed it into my palm and closed my fingers around it.
I opened my fingers to see a gold band nestled on my palm. I read the engraving around its outside. 'To my one true love, Christmas 1791.'
“It was meant for you,” she said.
Confused, I asked her, “Then why did he never give it to me, if it was meant for me?”
“He found himself strapped for cash and gave it to a goldsmith, in lieu of a payment he owed him. It's made of solid gold. The goldsmith never melted it down or sold it, but kept it and later gave it to me, out of—” She paused. “Pity, I suppose. He had a kind heart.”
“He owed payments to a goldsmith? Who was he?” I asked.
Her eyes met mine. “Your former husband, James.”
So this gold band, meant as a symbol of Alex's and my love thirteen years ago, now came back to me, through James, and through Mrs. Hamilton, in the most undeniably ironic way. But now it was finally mine, as it was meant to be.
“Why did not James pass it off as his own and give it to me?” I whispered, but James and I both knew the reason: I was not his one true love.
I slipt it onto my finger and never took it off.
I asked my daughter Susan to have me buried in it.
My ring and I shall rest in Saint John the Evangelist Cemetery in Dutchess County. I am grateful to Mrs. Hamilton for her forgiveness, her kindness, and never interfering, for the pitifully short but happiest moments of my life, when we shared Alexander Hamilton.
The End
Epilogue
August 16, 1804
Sitting atop the hill overlooking the small settlement of Queenstown in Natal Province, South Africa, contentedly puffing on a clay pipe, the tall man turned the page in the newspaper that had taken several weeks to reach his semi-isolated corner of the world. As he read of the death of his friend Alexander Hamilton, tears stung his eyes. Oh, poor Mrs. Hamilton, a widow, now nearly destitute, with children to raise on her own.
He shut his eyes and relived the events that led him to his current home. Dr. Solomon Bruckman, general practitioner to the inhabitants of Queenstown, a largely Jewish community some fifty miles from its nearest neighbor, remembered when he'd assumed another identity. The one-time Dr. Severus Black, knowing the law would soon be on his trail once Detective Le Clerc arrived in Philadelphia, choked out a farewell to his friend Mrs. Hamilton, went back out on the streets, and carried out his final killing. In the guise of a Catholic missionary, he hustled to the harbor, finding passage on the barque Emerald, bound for Brazil, from where he later sailed on the clipper Lady Marian as ship's surgeon. He arrived in South Africa some six weeks later.
Realizing his name might yet lead to his eventual downfall, a change was in order. As a large number of Jewish immigrants arrived in Natal, Dr. Solomon Bruckman was born.
Learning the tenets and customs of the Jewish religion was easy enough and he quickly learned to affect a suitable accent. To all intents and purposes, Dr. Black ceased to exist, and Dr. Bruckman soon engaged in conversation with a group of settlers. The poverty-stricken mob flocked to him, grateful they could trust the good doctor to treat them as they began their new lives in the province.
Although news from around the world rarely reached these parts, Dr. Bruckman was able to obtain occasional copies of American and British newssheets. One day he read that the great Detective Le Clerc had returned to Paris after assisting the Philadelphia authorities in chasing down the killer of several young women. Though no arrest had been made, the authorities commended Le Clerc in succeeding to force the killer to leave town, as they sought out an un-named English-born doctor who 'may be able to help with their inquiries.' However, Le Clerc had asserted that the most recent slaying of twenty-year-old Mary Ann Fowler must have been perpetrated by a different killer due to changes in the perpetrator's methods. Sporting his practiced smug grin, he snickered in amusement. And still they blunder like fools in the dark…
The doctor looked up as a beautiful, almost regal looking African hawk-eagle soared high above his hilltop vantage point—another predator, flying free. The one-time Severus Black sighed in appreciation of the spectacular view as a thin column of smoke escaped his pipe in futile pursuit of the unfettered bird.
Dr. Bruckman soon became a valued and popular member of the new community. Most residents found the doctor affable and approachable, if perhaps a bit aloof, as evidenced by his piercing cobalt blue eyes—eyes that never quite matched his warm smile.
Once or twice a year, the doctor would take leave of his patients and neighbors for a week at a time, ostensibly to visit friends in Cape Town. As the years passed, no one ever associated the occasional murder of a young woman in Capetown with the popular and respected doctor from the tiny settlement over a hundred miles away. Why on earth should they?
As the sun began to set over Queenstown, the one-time Severus Black, now Solomon Bruckman, folded his newspaper and prayed for his dear friend Elizabeth, now a distant memory. He descended the hill as evening fell upon his new homeland's quaint and peaceful panorama.
Author's Note from Diana Rubino
SHARING HAMILTON contains only a few fictional characters, but more about that later. I kept as close to the historical record as it would allow.
Maria divorced James Reynolds when she found out he had a mistress. Conflicting sources exist about Maria's wedding to Jacob: Some say she married him twenty minutes after Aaron Burr sent her divorce papers, and others say she married him a half hour before her divorce was final.
The servant James Reynolds hired, Maggie “Maggs” McKivan, sailed from Belfast, Ireland in the spring of 1773 on Friendship, bound for Philadelphia. She came as an indentured servant because she exchanged seven years of her service to Patrick Bevin of Philadelphia who agreed to pay her passage. To date, that is all we know about Maggie. Her story, though, is similar to the many anonymous people who came to America to create a new life.
All the letters written in the story are authentic and are copied word for word, except the letters between Mrs. Hamilton and Annie Bates. Annie had been a spy during the Revolutionary War and lived in Philadelphia at the same time as the Hamiltons, but there is no evidence Mrs. Hamilton hired her to follow her husband about town.
Hamilton's remark “Burr is for or against nothing, but as it suits his interest or ambition. I feel it a religious
duty to oppose his career” may well have been the first of many harsh remarks and affronts that resulted in the famous duel that sent Hamilton to his grave and caused Burr a lifetime of disgrace. Provoked by Burr's defeat of Hamilton's father-in-law Schuyler in the Senate election, Hamilton began making disparaging comments about Burr's character. The public feud reached its peak in 1804 with Hamilton's effort to block Burr's bid for the governorship of New York. When Hamilton subsequently hinted that Burr's relationship with his daughter was incestuous, Burr's challenge to the duel immediately followed.
In 1799, Aaron Burr and Hamilton's brother-in-law John Church faced each other with pistols Church purchased in London. Church shot off one of Burr's coat buttons. No one was hurt.
In 1801, 27-year-old lawyer George Eaker and 20-year-old Philip Hamilton dueled with the same pistols. Eaker's shot felled Philip and he died the next day.
Burr and Hamilton used the same pistols in their 1804 duel.
When John Church moved to upstate New York, he took the pistols with him. They were used by a family member in the Civil War. The Chase Manhattan Bank purchased them in 1930. They are now in the bank's vault under Wall Street.
The seventeen-year-old Eliza Bowen whom Burr greeted on his doorstep became his wife when he was 78 years old. She divorced him two years later, and he died the day she served him the papers. Her divorce lawyer was Alexander Hamilton, Jr.
Although Maria Reynolds Clingman vanished from history, her daughter Susan became the ward of Aaron Burr, as he took in and supported abandoned and orphaned children throughout his life.
Hamilton may have been working on The Reynolds Pamphlet during his affair with Maria, but he did not publish it until 1797, after Thomson Callender made “The Reynolds Affair” public. In the pamphlet, Hamilton admitted his involvement in the affair, so as not to tarnish his reputation lest anyone accuse him of fiscal corruption.
The charge against him, he said, was “a connection with one James Reynolds for purposes of improper pecuniary speculation. My real crime is an amorous connection with his wife for a considerable time…with his connivance…with the design to extort money from me.”
