“But I mean, surely, I must have—”
“And as for Angelica and John, I know you received the letter, because I found it open on your desk in your study.”
“In my study? Were you snooping on me?”
“No, Alex, I wasn’t snooping. I was preparing the room to sleep my sister and her husband, since you had promised the other to Mr. Earl.”
“But there isn’t even a couch in there. Surely you’re not going to put them on the floor.”
“Of course I’m not going to put them on the floor. I borrowed a bedstead and mattress from our neighbors.”
“Borrowed a—from who? Whom?”
“Theodosia.”
“Theo—you mean Theodosia Burr?”
“Is there another on this block?”
Alex could barely believe his ears. “I’m not sure I appreciate your tone, Mrs. Hamilton.”
“Oh, really, Mr. Hamilton? Well, I’m not sure I appreciate being saddled with a houseful of guests with no advance warning. But guess what? We’re going to make the best of it. You’re going to put this gold jacket on and join us on the sofa, and Mr. Earl’s going to paint a fabulous picture of us.”
“You’re going to have to wake him up first,” John said from the sofa.
Alex glanced over and saw that Earl had wandered to the dining room, where he pulled three chairs out from the table and laid himself across them. Wet snores bubbled out of his mouth, which was slick with spittle.
“Nope!” Eliza called. “Mr. Earl! Up!”
Earl ignored her, turning onto his stomach and burying his face in his hands.
Suddenly a faint crying came from up the stairs.
Angelica sat up as if a shot had gone off. Her wig went flying over the back of the sofa.
“The baby!” she said, her voice less panicked than automatic. She lurched up and headed for the stairs, her half-tied dress sagging around her waist, revealing the lace of her chemise.
John smiled at them wanly. “It looks like our party is over. I’ll, uh, just give Angie a hand.” And setting Eliza’s wig delicately on the sofa, he set off after his wife.
Alex waited till his brother-in-law was gone before turning back to Eliza. “My darling, I—”
“Don’t you ‘darling’ me, Alexander Hamilton.” Eliza’s tone was quiet but firm. The alcohol was gone from her voice, and Alex now wondered if it had been there in the first place.
“Eliza, please. I’m so sorry. I’ve been running in so many different directions lately. I—I must have lost track of things.”
“Well, I know one direction you haven’t been running in. To me.” And now a little hurt crept into her voice.
Alex felt his knees quiver. “It’s true. I’m so, so sorry.” He put his arms around her. “Let me make it up to you?” he said, kissing her forehead, her nose, her lips.
Eliza let her lips linger on his. “Don’t think you can kiss your way out of this, Mr. Hamilton.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Alex said, kissing her again. “Mrs. Hamilton.”
Another kiss, and then he took her hand and turned for the stairs.
“What say we continue our fight in the morning?”
Eliza just shook her head at him. “I might find you irresistible, Mr. Hamilton,” she said. “But I believe you are overestimating your powers of persuasion.”
She headed up the stairs alone, leaving Alex’s jaw hanging open. From the dining room came the throaty rumble of Ralph Earl’s snores.
23
Salad Days
The Hamilton Town House
New York, New York
March 1784
“Tell me again,” Eliza said.
“Lettuce,” Helena Morris said.
“Let us … ?” Angelica parroted in disbelief.
“Let us … eat lettuce,” Helen answered with a laugh.
Ralph Earl reached a hand forward and fingered the green leaves. “It certainly feels like lettuce,” he pronounced, to the obvious disbelief of the Schuyler sisters.
“That’s because it is,” Helena said. “Lettuce. L-E-T-T-U-C-E.”
“But it’s the twenty-seventh of March,” Eliza said. “How on earth can one have lettuce on March twenty-seventh? It’s like … it’s like a mule having babies.”
“Mules can’t have babies?” Ralph said. “Then how on earth do you get more mules?”
“A mule is a cross between a donkey and a horse,” Angelica said, fingering the lettuce nervously. “It does feel … like lettuce.”
“You’re making that up!” Earl scoffed. “Donkeys and horses—preposterous!”
“People!” Eliza clapped her hands. “Focus! We are trying to decide what this very lettuce-looking substance is that Helena has placed before us. My guess is that she wrinkled some paper up and then had Mr. Earl paint it green.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Helena snatched a leaf and popped it into her mouth. She chewed, swallowed. “See? Not paper. Lettuce. I told you. It’s a gift from Jane Beekman. Her parents’ greenhouse is apparently as balmy as the tropics. They grow green vegetables all the year round. Try it,” she insisted, pushing a head toward them.
Eliza looked at Angelica and Mr. Earl to see if either of them would volunteer. Both shrank from the table. Well, Eliza supposed, it was up to her. “I got a taste of an orange from Jane’s greenhouse the other day,” she said.
Nervously, she reached out and pulled a small piece from a leaf. It certainly felt real. Tender, slightly damp, with a bit of a crunch as it ripped free. She took a breath, then tossed it in her mouth. She expected some kind of rancid taste, as when, as a little girl, she had licked a painting of cake, thinking it would taste like frosting, only to have it taste like paint smells. But this tasted like … lettuce.
“Remarkable!” she after a moment. “It really is lettuce.” She tore off another piece. She turned to her sister and the artist. “You must try it!”
“Delectable!” the artist crooned.
“Oh!” Angelica said. “I don’t think I’ve had a green vegetable since September. Just soft potatoes and mealy apples and squash. This is divine! I feel my complexion brightening and my bones growing straighter! What a miracle!”
“Helena,” Eliza said, stuffing her mouth with the green goodness. “I would marry you if I weren’t already married.”
“And if she weren’t a woman,” Angelica said with a laugh.
“A technicality. I would find a way around it. This really is wonderful. It makes me long for spring’s full arrival.”
“Now, now, don’t eat it at all,” Helena said, laughing, as they reached for a second head. “Save some for Mr. Hamilton.”
“Mr. Hamilton can fend for himself,” Eliza said, but she stopped herself from digging into the second head, and swatted Mr. Earl’s hand away when he reached for it.
“Mmmm, how did that go last night?” Angelica said. “You seemed rather upset with him.”
“Oh, he was suitably apologetic, after I finally got him to admit that he had forgotten to inform me that Mr. Earl was coming to stay with us, and that your and John’s arrival was imminent. It behooves me to remember that he is doing the jobs of five different men at present, and I need to be understanding.”
“And what are you, a hat tree in the foyer?” Helena laughed. “There when he needs you, forgotten when he doesn’t? I told John when he proposed to me: I would rather spend my life with a cabbage farmer in some godforsaken place like Easthampton or, or Ohio than with a man who neglects me.”
“But, Helena,” Eliza said. “It falls to the men to work outside of the home and to provide for their womenfolk.”
“And whose fault is that?” Helena retorted. “No one’s but their own. Why, would you feel sympathy when your jailor complained about the long hours he spent guarding you? Of course not. You would tell him to release you, and then you could both get a good night’s sleep.”
“Hear, hear!” Earl said, once again reaching for the lettuce. E
liza snatched the basket away and folded the cloth covering over it.
“Surely you are not suggesting that women could do the same work as men?”
“Suggesting it?” Helena said. “Of course not. I am stating it as absolute fact. Why, many’s the time I’ve looked over John’s account books and spotted some error or other he missed.”
“Well, I’ve looked over Alex’s court papers on a few occasions but I’m afraid I’m not much help in that department.”
“But did you train as lawyer?” Helena asked. “Did you clerk at court? Did you go to college even? I’m betting you did not. I’m guessing that you and Angelica and Peggy were educated just like me and my sisters: at our mother’s knee, in the schoolroom at home. And after everyone had learned the basics of reading and writing and sums, the boys went on to science and history and philosophy while you had a needle and thread stuck in your hand, or a bow and arrow—but a dainty one, not one that you could use on the field of war—or perhaps a pianoforte.”
“What on earth is wrong with playing the pianoforte?” Eliza asked.
“Nothing,” Helena said. “But it won’t exactly help you solve the problem of paying for a standing militia without a federal tax program, or correcting our trade imbalance with France.”
“Well!” Angelica exclaimed with a laugh. “Our little Helena is one of Mr. Locke’s rationalist empiricists, or whatever they’re called.”
“I don’t even know who Mr. Locke is, let alone a rational whatchamacallit. My observations are based on what I see with my own two eyes. Speaking of which,” Helena interrupted herself. “Angelica and I really should be off. I’ve promised to take her to my tailor to get some dresses made for her journey. Angelica’s garments are far too American to wear in Europe.”
“Imagine if a man had to spend half as much time on his appearance as we do,” Angelica said as she followed Helena to the wardrobe in the hall, where she retrieved her coat.
“They would not start half the wars they do,” Eliza joked.
“No, no,” Helena said with a laugh. “They would start them, but they would never show up to the field of battle because they’d be forever getting dressed.”
“And with that, my beautiful sister, I bid you au revoir,” Angelica said. “John said it was unlikely that he would be back in time for dinner, but I will do my best.”
“And if we do run late, then I will make sure she’s fed and watered somewhere,” Helena said.
Angelica waited for the maid to retrieve Philip from his crib upstairs. Eliza had offered to watch him but Angelica said that unless she was hiding a wet nurse somewhere, the baby had best stay with her. Kissing Eliza good-bye, she and Helena headed out into the bright March day.
“Well, Mr. Earl,” Eliza said, turning from the closed door, “it seems like it’s just you and me.”
And the decanter, she added mentally, for when she returned from the hall she saw that Earl had made his way to the drinks table and poured himself a double helping. Eliza had made Alex hide the honey wine before he left, leaving out only the heavy red wine her father brewed at the Pastures. Her father was, by his own estimation, “an unaccomplished oenologist,” but had taken the precaution of fortifying his liquor with strong Portuguese brandy. The resulting beverage was not particularly tasty and the dregs turned your tongue as black as a berry, but it got the job done.
“Hmmm,” Earl said after his first sip, which drained half his glass. “The honey wine seems to have lost a bit of its sweetness.”
“Alas, we seem to have drunk all the honey wine last night,” Eliza said. She told herself that technically it wasn’t a lie, since last night’s party had indeed drained the opened cask, and the remaining ones were stored below in the kitchen. “Well, Mr. Earl, you are a free man. How do you wish to spend your first day out of a cell?”
Ralph had already refilled his glass, and now he sprawled across a sofa. Eliza winced, fearful that he should spill the dark purple liquid across the delicate yellow silk upholstery, but Earl handled his glass with the same delicacy he handled his brushes and spilled not a drop on the sofa or himself.
“In the company of a beautiful woman,” he said now, so roguishly that Eliza found herself blushing.
“Mr. Earl! Have you a paramour that you’ve failed to mention?” But even as the words left her mouth, she realized that he was referring to her.
“You are too modest, Mrs. Hamilton. And too formal with me lately. It seemed that we were closer when there were bars between us.”
Eliza stiffened. She was suddenly aware of their intimacy and isolation. She had not been alone with a man other than Alex since she left Albany. “I do not at all want you to feel unwelcome, but I must confess to being very startled by both your and my sister’s presence here yesterday.”
“I hope I will not inconvenience you for any longer than is necessary, Mrs. Hamilton.” Eliza also couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t specify any kind of time frame for finding a place of his own.
“Your and Mr. Hamilton’s immense generosity in my hour of need has meant more to me than I can possibly convey,” Earl continued, “or repay for that matter. I painted no fewer than seventeen portraits during my time in prison, and all but two of the commissions were sent to me by your husband. It is thanks to him that I was able to pay my creditors and earn my freedom—or should I say”—waving a hand at the parlor—“release to a far more luxurious cell.”
Eliza took a moment to look around the parlor. She had to admit that after four months in New York, she and Alex had created a beautiful home. The walls, which had been a handsome but somber cerulean shade when they first moved in, was now covered with mint-green wallpaper with a toile pattern in a color that both Alex and Eliza had delighted to learn was called Hooker green. The darker of the two greens depicted a seven-bayed brick house in a pastoral setting that bore more than a passing resemblance to the Schuylers’ Albany mansion.
The heavily carved walnut sofa was long enough to seat three, and covered in beautiful yellow silk jacquard. It was flanked by a pair of wing chairs, which, though not a set, had also been covered in yellow silk and thus complemented the sofa without being too much of a piece. A low oval table with a pale gold lacquer finish held table and chairs together, while a second, smaller sofa in matching yellow silk, flanked by pair of delicate cane chairs and one well-worn Windsor chair, rounded out the room. The Windsor had the look of a family heirloom (it was), along with a couple of tiny wooden tables with painted tops, and added just the right note of hominess to the room, which otherwise might have looked too impersonal in its newness. The clock on the mantel was marble and silver, flanked by the Revere candelabra that had formerly been in the dining room.
It was indeed “luxurious,” as Mr. Earl said. She and Alex had chosen each piece with care, and at the time Eliza had thought they were creating a room—a home—that they would share together and start their family in. Yet it seemed the only time they ever shared the room was when it was filled with a half-dozen guests besides. The rest of the time it was just Eliza’s prettily decorated cell.
She chose to keep this feeling to herself, instead saying:
“Seventeen paintings. And how long were you incarcerated?”
“For just over eight months.” Ralph said it almost longingly, as if he had visited one of the southern states during winter, and enjoyed the balmy winter. And indeed he continued. “I must admit, though, that prison agreed with me in some way. I have never been a particularly gregarious man, preferring the company of just one or two quality people to that of the mob. And I have never had such a sustained period of productivity in my life.”
“Yes, I was trying to sort that out in my head. You worked on the portrait of me for nearly a month, and it was still ‘not quite finished’ when you were released yesterday. So how on earth did you manage to paint—sixteen, is it?—in the seven months prior?”
Earl tried to stone-face her, but failed. A smirk cracked his face, quick
ly widening to a grin, and a moment later he broke out into peals of laughter. So violent were his paroxysms that he actually relinquished his wineglass, setting it down on the lacquered table (mercifully without spilling atop it). Eliza did her best to laugh with him, though she had no idea what he was laughing at.
“I’m afraid you have found me out,” he said when at last he could speak again, which is to say, after he’d cleared his throat with a hearty swig of wine, and refilled his glass. “I was stalling.”
“Stalling? You mean, deliberately prolonging my visits?”
“Prolonging the pleasure of one whose charming visage is only matched by her charm of temperament. I confess that toward the end I would prepare my palette with paints the night before, so they would be dry by the time you arrived. Then I’d daub a dry brush into them and across your portrait.”
“Why, Mr. Earl, you scoundrel!” Eliza said, only half joking. “Had you no qualms about continuing to invite a lady into such an environment? Were you not afraid that my virtue might be compromised?”
Ralph shrugged. “It was not I who initiated the visits, but your husband. If he believed no ill would befall you, then I saw no reason to assume contrariwise. After all, I am a gentleman, and I lived there day in, day out. I know ladies are more delicate—”
“Be wary of what you say, Mr. Earl,” Eliza warned with a twinkle in her eye, “lest Mrs. Rutherfurd get wind of your retrogressive ways, and return to school you in women’s equality.”
“Well then, Mrs. Rutherfurd will surely take my side. If a man can stand such conditions, surely a woman can, too.”
Eliza had to admit to herself that she had suffered no harm during her month of visits, and, in fact, had found the experience interesting, illuminating even. She had been shocked to learn, for example, that the inhabitants of debtors’ prison were not, like regular criminals, wards of the state, and as such, the state did not provide for them. It struck Eliza as an absurd, not to mention cruel, system. A man is unable to pay his debt so he is locked away from gainful employment, and forced to go still deeper in debt just to pay his upkeep? There was no way for a creditor to recoup his losses in such a scenario. It was purely punitive. It was yet another holdover from the Old World that she hoped her country would do away with sooner rather than later.
Love & War_An Alex & Eliza Story Page 23
