Weeping Widows
Ruston’s Ale House
New York, New York
February 1784
As busy as their social lives were, Alex wasn’t on his way to a party a few nights later. Instead he was en route to his star client’s home. Ruston’s Ale House occupied the first floor of a three-story building, rather like Samuel Fraunces’s Queen’s Head Tavern just a few blocks away on the corner of Pearl and Broad. The second floor was taken up by rooms to let, some of which housed guests who stayed for months at a time, while others were rented out on a night-by-night basis. The third floor of the spacious building was given over to an apartment for Mrs. Childress and her two children. Alex passed through the bustling inn quickly. By now the barmaids recognized him and, after requesting that a pint of stout be sent upstairs—it was a cold evening after all, and he needed something that would stick to his bones—Alex quickly ascended the two flights. The staircase was quite narrow and abutted the building’s main chimney, so it was quite warm as well, and by the time Alex reached the closed door, he was rather flushed. He pulled the chain and heard the tinkle of a bell from within the apartment.
After some moments Mrs. Childress answered the door herself. She had long since let go of her domestic servants, and ran the ale house and inn on a skeleton staff. The inn itself was still quite busy, but the interest on the loan she had taken to purchase the Baxter Street building that had been seized from her, as well as the distillery equipment therein, ate up all her profits.
“Mr. Hamilton,” she said, her pale face lighting up, “I did not expect you until tomorrow. Do please come in.”
She stepped aside and Alex entered the spacious foyer. The Childresses’ building occupied a corner lot, with rows of windows down two sides, and received as much light as the late February afternoon could offer.
Mrs. Childress led him into the parlor, a large room fronted by three tall windows framed by heavy draperies in a bronze-and-blue damask. She indicated a tufted sofa and took her place on an elegant, if well-used, Windsor chair to one side. She wasn’t wearing one of her all-black mourning gowns today, but a midnight-blue dress with a black ribbon sewn so elegantly into the sleeve that it might have been mistaken for decoration.
“I am sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Childress,” he said. “I did not realize you were having a private day.”
“Oh, your visits are never a disturbance, Mr. Hamilton.”
Alex wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw a touch of color appear on Mrs. Childress’s cheeks. He apologized for the time once again; it was after four and the sun was setting, and only one lamp was lit in the room.
A knock sounded at the door, which opened immediately, letting in a barmaid who carried a pitcher in one hand, two glasses in another. “Some stout for Mr. Hamilton,” she said, setting it down on the table. “I took the liberty of bringing two glasses.”
“Thank you, Sally. Would you like a bite to eat, Mr. Hamilton? The cook made a Yankee pudding today that will warm you through the coldest snowstorm.”
“Well …” Alex meant to dine at home with Eliza, but Yankee pudding wasn’t in Rowena’s repertoire.
“Please bring a plate up for Mr. Hamilton,” Caroline directed. “And some of those scones as well.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The maid hurried out.
“May I?” Alex indicated the pitcher of ale.
She nodded, her eyes shining with plaintive yearning. It was as if the only thing she had left to offer were her hospitality, and she were desperate that it be sufficient.
I suppose I must seem like her last chance, Alex thought to himself. Then again, I suppose I am her last chance.
“In fact, I have come here about court.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Childress sipped at her stout as delicately as if it were a glass of tea. “Has there been movement?” She said the word tentatively. It was a term she had picked up from Alex.
“In a manner of speaking. A judge has been selected, and a date for the hearing to commence.”
“Oh. Well, that is good news, isn’t it?”
New York City’s courts had been in chaos since the end of the occupation. Nearly two-thirds of the sitting judges, and an equal proportion of counsel, had been loyalists, and under Governor Clinton’s new laws all of them were summarily fired. The positions were being filled quickly—too quickly, Alex thought. Lawyers who barely had a few more years’ experience at the bar than he did were being named judges, the final authority in matters of law that they hardly understood.
“Mr. Hamilton?” A shadow clouded Caroline’s fair skin. “If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t seem particularly happy.”
Alex bit his lip. “It is not my intention to alarm you, Mrs. Childress. It’s just that the judge, Lewis Smithson, who has been selected to oversee the case is a recent appointee of Governor Clinton’s.”
The mere mention of the name Clinton made Caroline frown.
“I see,” she said, as if she already knew what Alex was going to say.
“Judge Smithson is not well-known in the city, but he is known to be … not exactly sympathetic to loyalist causes.” Alex had considered using the word hostile, but thought it too pessimistic.
“I see,” Caroline said again.
“I do not want you to give up hope,” Alex said now, putting as much vigor into his voice as he could. “There is nothing to suggest that Judge Smithson’s personal beliefs will bias him against either the rule of law or the evidence. He is inexperienced, yes, but the people who have met him say he is an honorable man. I am convinced that the soundest arguments, not to mention common sense, will carry the day.”
“Inexperienced” didn’t quite cover it: Though in his fifties, Smithson had been a member of the bar for less time than Alex had. It was Alex’s understanding that he had been a farmer before.
Caroline was trying to remain calm, but there was a tremor in her hands as she took a long sip of her beer, and then another.
“So it essentially comes down to whether you are a better attorney than, what do you call it, opposing counsel?”
Alex couldn’t keep a smile off his face. “You will forgive me for singing my own praises, but I have no doubts as to my own abilities as a rhetorician, either in print or orally.”
“I am sure your opponent—my opponent, dare I say—must think the same things about himself.”
Alex nodded, almost sheepishly.
“Opposing counsel does not lack for self-confidence.”
“You speak as if you know him.”
“Indeed, I have supped with him twice in the past week, once at the home of John and Sarah Jay, and once at his own home. He is an amiable fellow and quite charming, but strictly entre nous, he wins more cases on charm than on knowledge of the law.”
“It seems to me not to matter if he wins by fair means or foul. It is still a loss for me.”
“Why, Mrs. Childress!” Alex said, only half pretending to be affronted. “You speak as if you think there could possibly be a better lawyer in New York than I!”
Caroline didn’t seem to realize that Alex was joking to try to set her at ease. Indeed, she looked aghast that he might think she doubted him.
“Oh, Mr. Hamilton, I could never doubt you! You are my last—my only hope! My life and the lives of my children are in your hands!” she said, nervous fingers kneading at the worn fabric of her dress.
To his surprise and consternation, Caroline suddenly leapt from her chair and knelt, prostate, at his feet. “I will do anything, anything you need!” she cried. “Anything you want, I am yours. Just ask!” She stopped her hysterics for a moment and turned to him with suddenly sly look. “Anything.” It was more than clear what she meant by “anything.”
Alex shifted uneasily in his seat. He had to make clear that such advances on her part were unwarranted and more important, unwelcome. While he had always been happy to flirt at parties with married and unmarried women, there was only one woman for him, forever, no matter what temptations might
lie in his path now, or in the future, and should he ever fail Eliza, he would never betray her soul. With a stab of guilt, he realized he’d spent more time with Mrs. Childress than Mrs. Hamilton lately, and vowed to ameliorate the situation as soon as he could—as soon as this case was won, of course. A man had his responsibilities, not least among them securing his position and ensuring the household bills were paid.
“Mr. Hamilton?” Caroline asked, batting her eyelashes as she knelt at his feet.
“Please, there is no reason for such dramatics. I beg you, please get back in your seat, Mrs. Childress, there you go. Do not fear, and do not doubt me. I have nearly as much invested in winning this case as do you. I will not fail us.”
His client resumed her place across from him and pretended nothing had happened, which Alex was happy to do as well. And he realized he should wrap this up and return to his patient wife, as soon as possible.
“But no one can predict the law,” Caroline said. “And the mood is so poisoned against us! Can they not see that we are all Americans, no matter how we became so?”
“They will see it by the time I am finished,” Alex replied. “I don’t care if I have to talk for two hours, or four, or the entire day. You shall have justice. I,” he added in a firmer voice, “shall have victory.”
There was a knock at the door then, and Sally entered with a covered tray, which she set on the table beside the glasses of beer, then opened to reveal a large plate of Yorkshire pudding and roast smothered in gravy, along with a pair of scones glittering with sugar.
“Will there be anything else, Mrs. Childress?”
Caroline was still too overcome to speak in a normal voice, so Alex thanked the maid and sent her away. He insisted she eat some of his meal to calm herself, and took his leave.
“I hope you will forgive my outburst,” Caroline said as she walked him to the door. “It has just been such a trying time this past half year.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Alex said, putting on his hat. “Our court date is in four weeks, but you will see me many times before that, I’m sure, as we go over the facts of the case one last time, and review your testimony.”
She crossed her arms. “You know, Mr. Hamilton, besides my children, seeing you is the only thing that brightens my day.”
Alex ignored the comment. “Good night, Mrs. Childress,” he said, in a professional tone. “I will see myself downstairs.”
Caroline suddenly remembered something. “You never did tell me the name of opposing counsel.”
“Didn’t I?” Alex said. “He is a former colonel I knew slightly from my days in the army. His name is Aaron Burr.”
21
A Change of Venue
Debtors’ Prison
New York, New York
March 1784
If the time Eliza spent at debtors’ prison made her a little uncomfortable, there were other factors in its favor. The walk was not long, the weather was becoming increasingly fair, and the sitting itself only took an hour. Yet over time, Eliza came to realize that the preliminary sessions with the charcoal stick were not so Earl could “learn how her face painted,” as he put it during that first meeting, but so that he could drink up half the contents of the flask she had brought him, which settled the tremors in his hands.
Although she and Peggy and Angelica had all had fun at parties, the Schuylers were by and large a temperate family, and Eliza had never encountered someone who didn’t simply enjoy alcohol, but actually seemed to need it. She had always thought her mother a bit of a fuddy-duddy whenever she cautioned against “the vice of excessive drink,” but she could hear Mrs. Schuyler’s warning voice in her head whenever she placed Alex’s flask into Mr. Earl’s trembling fingers.
His moist, slightly quivering lips, the slitted, almost accusative eyes all made her nervous. Yet the sketches he turned out one after another were exceedingly lovely, and when he actually began to paint—it was remarkable! The way he brought out the shine of the lace in her bodice, yet still managed to convey the contours of the skin beneath it. And the pink in the ribbon at her waist, echoed by the light flush of her cheeks. It was as if she had sat not in a small, windowless prison cell lit by a single candelabra, but in the finest of drawing rooms with a chandelier blazing overhead. What impressed her most were the eyes: dark and serious, inquisitive even. They were the eyes Eliza saw when she looked in the mirror; sometimes when she inspected the painting she expected them to blink back at her. Any man who could paint like that, and on a cup of whiskey, could not be said to have a problem with alcohol. Could he?
During their sittings, Earl would grill Eliza for news of the latest society gossip, which Eliza would answer as honestly as she could. In fact, everyone in their circle seemed remarkably well-behaved, and Earl teased her that her stories offered little distraction for an incarcerated man. She did notice, however, that whenever she brought up Alex, he changed the subject. “Forgive me if it seems gauche, dear Mrs. Hamilton, but no single man likes to discuss a beautiful woman’s husband. Can you not find me one rich widow I can pine for, or, failing that, an unhappily married socialite I can spirit away?” Eliza half imagined that he meant her, yet there was nothing insinuating in his tone as he spoke the words.
After a month of once-or twice-weekly visits, however, the portrait was nearly finished. In fact, the portrait had seemed done to Eliza for more than a week, and she was under the impression that Earl was drawing out the experience for the sake of the company, or the whiskey.
For her part, even as she disapproved of his excessive drinking, she enjoyed being around him, as he did endeavor to ask her about her childhood, her thoughts on the topics of the day, and her opinions on the changes happening in the city. Eliza greatly missed conversation—Alex was working so hard, he was hardly ever home, and it saddened her to think that Earl knew more—and was more interested—in her day-to-day life than her husband. While Alex had started to come home a little earlier a few weeks ago, and had been extra-attentive, almost as if he were courting her again for a spell, he was back to his old, late-night habits as the case drew nearer. Sometimes she anguished that they would never have time to start a family; for how could they, if they seldom had time together, and when they were in each other’s company, one or both of them were asleep?
Earl was explaining “over-painting” and “varnishes,” and she turned back her attention to the portrait. If she looked closely, it did seem to her that the picture acquired new degrees of luminescence and depth with each visit, but it could also be the power of suggestion.
*
IT WAS A clear blustery day in March when she headed to the prison for what she assumed would be the final sitting. The wet sea breeze was quite chilly, yet there was also a hint of freshness to it, a promise of a spring that, though still some weeks away, was definitely on the return. Eliza hurried through the Fields and in through the front entrance of the debtors’ prison, where O’Reilly looked up with a surprised expression.
“Why, Mrs. Hamilton! Funny seeing you again!”
Eliza thought this was a strange thing to say, but let it pass without comment.
“Good afternoon, Mr. O’Reilly. Is Mr. Earl prepared for me?”
O’Reilly looked confused. “I shouldn’t know, ma’am. He wasn’t here when I arrived this morning.”
“What? Did he”—Eliza had no idea why her mind went here—“escape?”
O’Reilly cracked a smile. “Depends what you think of lawyers’ work, I suppose.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Mr. Hamilton sent over papers yesterday directing that Mr. Earl be ‘released on recognizance,’ whatever that means.”
“But—” Eliza’s voice fell off. She had seen Alex for all of five minutes this morning, taking her tea in bed while he dressed, and had made a point of asking him to take down the mirror over the front parlor fireplace in preparation for Mr. Earl’s portrait, which she had told him she was picking up that day.
When s
he came downstairs, she had been a little hurt to discover that he had left without taking the mirror down, but now her ego was even more bruised. It seemed that not only did her husband not have any time for her these days, he didn’t even have space in his mind for her.
But none of this was O’Reilly’s concern.
“Oh, that’s right!” she said with forced brightness. “How stupid of me. It completely slipped my mind.” She had brought a basket of sandwiches and all but shoved them in O’Reilly’s hands. “Please,” she said. “For you and the less fortunate inmates.” The debtors’ prison didn’t provide food to those incarcerated there, who were dependent upon the attentions of friends and family or the benevolent societies.
“Don’t you want your basket?” O’Reilly called after her as she hurried from the building.
“Keep it,” Eliza said, escaping into the cold sunshine.
*
HER MIND WAS awash with feelings as she walked home. Anger first, of course, at Alex’s thoughtlessness, followed by guilt. Because surely her own husband couldn’t be so careless of her time. Of her feelings. She racked her brain, trying to remember if he had said anything about Ralph’s release, but nothing came. As much as she wanted this to be her fault so she could let Alex off the hook, it appeared that he had simply forgotten to tell her.
She let herself into her house in a daze, which is why she didn’t hear the thrum of voices until after they stopped, leaving only the sound of a fussing baby.
Eliza stepped from her hallway into her parlor. Three figures sat there, each so unexpected that she almost didn’t believe her eyes. The first two were Angelica and John Church, while the third was—
“Mr. Earl?”
Before Earl could reply, Angelica had leapt from her chair and thrown her arms around Eliza.
“Oh, we’ve surprised you! I hope our presence is not too unwelcome,” said Angelica.
“No, no,” Eliza said, returning her sister’s embrace warmly. It was wonderful to see Angelica, but startling to see Ralph Earl in her home. “I mean, yes, I am surprised, but no, your presence is not unwelcome at all. And baby Philip,” she said, at last stirring herself to notice her nephew, who was fussing on his father’s lap.
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