The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr

by Susan Holloway Scott

  She was right. He spoke so often about the children he wanted to have with her that it couldn’t be otherwise. And I thought, too, of the children I’d wanted with Lucas, the children I’d now never bear.

  “Be easy, Mistress,” I said gently. “I will not tell him.”

  Her hand fell away from my arm, and again she closed her eyes. Beneath the coverlet, I saw the motion of her hand protectively resting on her belly, over that tiny promise of a child. I pitied her, her and the Colonel both. It wasn’t so much that they’d no desire for a daughter, but the boys Mistress had borne during her first marriage had been strong and survived, while the two little daughters had been weak and fragile, and perished before their first birthdays.

  Even so, there’d be no certainties where Mistress was concerned, and their fondest hopes might yet be misplaced. Childbirth was a hazard to any woman. If she was this weak and ill now, how could she—or her child—withstand the rigors to come?

  And yet as ragged as her voice was, there was no mistaking the determination in it.

  “I’ll give him his son, no matter what it costs me,” she said, “and I promise that no child, ever, will be better loved.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Albany

  State of New York

  June 1783

  No matter how much Mistress wished otherwise, a resolute mind cannot overcome the frail body that contains it. From those early days onward, her pregnancy was a difficult one. She had some days, particularly in the middle months, when she felt better, and was able to rise and dress and go about her day’s business and the Colonel’s as well, and even make calls and receive others, but for much of the last month she remained in her bed.

  It had not taken the Colonel long to discover her secret, though I do not know if he guessed it himself or she finally told him. Whichever was the case, he was as proud and happy as could be expected, but also much worried for the health of both his wife and their unborn child. It was all a mystery to him, as it always is for men, and he brought both midwives and physicians to her bed for consultations. It had taken so long for Mistress to agree to marry him, and they’d now been wed for such a short time, that he could not bear the thought of losing her.

  But Mistress’s entire concern was for the child growing within her, its health and hardiness. Haunted by the two infants she’d lost long before, she was terrified that her inhospitable womb would somehow produce another who was too weak to survive. She heeded every single suggestion that her midwife and the others made, from sipping French brandy and beef-heart broth to wearing two pairs of woolen stockings and a little bag of fragrant herbs tied around her neck.

  On days when she was too weary to sit at her desk to compose letters, she’d have me write down her words for her. I read to her, too, though she became impatient when I could not decipher a word, or pronounced it how it looked, rather than how it was written; still, while her pleasure might have been diminished, my reading and my knowledge improved by her corrections, though that was surely not her intention.

  The longer Mistress kept to her bed, the mound of her belly growing larger beneath the sheets, the more I began to assume the household’s affairs and responsibilities. This had increased with the arrival in late May of Mrs. DeVisme from New Jersey, who intended to remain with her daughter until after the birth. I was sent on errands about the city, to shops and to the market in Mistress’s place. I was trusted with both small amounts of money to spend on purchases and the right to sign for credit in the Colonel’s name. When we’d first come to Albany, I’d been a cook who’d also served as a lady’s maid to Mistress. Now, in addition, I served as housekeeper to Colonel and Mrs. Burr, a significant accomplishment for someone of twenty-four years.

  Neither the Colonel nor Mistress said anything of my increasing responsibilities, being so occupied with their own affairs and concerns, nor did it make any real difference in my own situation. It was not a promotion such as a free white servant would have celebrated. I still slept on a pallet on the floor in the attic. I wore the same clothes I always had. I did not receive an increase in wages, for I received no wages at all.

  Of course I longed for it to be otherwise, yet I could contrive of no way to make it so. Late at night in the kitchen, Carlos would often pronounce bold statements about running away and freeing himself that way, but he never could answer the most important question: where would he run to?

  For a young woman like me, that question had no answer. I’d no friends or family elsewhere to aid me, nor had I the funds to purchase passage on a boat or ship, or otherwise ease my way. The two servants who had fled the Prevost household years before had had each other for companionship, while I’d no one but myself. My appearance was sufficiently unusual that I could never pass unnoticed, or pretend that I was a white woman. A man could enlist in the army, or go to sea, or disappear into the forests to the west, but a woman could not. Instead, there were a thousand grim ways that I could come to harm or be misused by others.

  Perhaps that knowledge made me a coward. Perhaps I thought too much of Lucas, and how he’d promised to buy my freedom for me, instead of contriving a way to free myself. But for now, my one hope was that with the final end of war—which was said to be any day now—Congress would finally make good on the words in the Declaration of Independence that “all men are created equal,” and banish slavery entirely. Lucas had believed that they would, believed strongly enough that he’d enlisted in the army and given his life for it. I had trusted him, and now must put all that same trust in Congress.

  On days when the Colonel was not in court, it was his habit to come home to dine at midday, and then return to his offices and work until early evening or later, depending on his cases. At his request, I usually sent Carlos to his office with some small refreshment to sustain him until he’d come home for supper. On this particular afternoon in June, I couldn’t find Carlos, and thus made the short walk myself.

  The Colonel kept his offices in a small clapboard building on South Pearl Street. In the front was a large, open room where the clerks toiled at their desks. Bartow and Frederick were among them, taking this first step toward becoming lawyers. It didn’t surprise me to see Bartow industriously copying a letter while Frederick gazed out the window, his chin pillowed in his palm, for that was already the difference between the brothers. I hoped Frederick didn’t let the Colonel catch him daydreaming. Neither his stepfather nor his mother would be sympathetic to what they’d perceive as his idleness.

  Beyond the clerks’ room was the Colonel’s office, a smaller room with a door for privacy. The clerks scarcely glanced up from their work when I entered, and I made my way, unannounced, between their desks to knock on his door.

  The Colonel rose from his desk as soon as I entered: not from respect, but excitement, and trepidation as well.

  “Is there news?” he demanded. “Has Mrs. Burr—”

  “All is well, sir,” I said quickly to reassure him, “and no sign yet of the child.”

  His dropped back into his chair.

  “Thank God.” His face relaxed, and he attempted a half-hearted jest. “I know my poor wife wants only to be safely delivered, but I’ve a sizable case before the state courts tomorrow, and I’d be much obliged if my son would postpone his arrival until the end of the week.”

  “He’ll come when he comes, sir,” I said, setting my basket onto the corner of his desk, the only part that wasn’t covered with papers. “Both Mrs. DeVisme and the midwives say the same.”

  “They would know,” he said, “and I would not. Nor would Hamilton, who was here earlier with nightmarish tales of his wife’s mother’s confinements. It is not agreeable to hear of that poor lady delivering triplets—triplets!—when she was the same age as my wife, and then to tell me that the three pitiful infants perished in the process.”

  “Oh, sir, that is not what you wish to hear!” I exclaimed, horrified that Colonel Hamilton would thoughtlessly repeat such a sad tale. “At present your ch
ild is in no such peril, sir, but quick and lively within the womb.”

  He nodded, looking so solemn that I saw again how much this former officer, known for his courage and boldness in battle, now feared desperately for the sake of his wife and child.

  “I’d much rather take your word than Hamilton’s, Mary,” he said. “Where’s that rascal Carlos?”

  “Likely he’s on some other errand, sir.” I suspected that errand was a girl who lived four houses from ours, but I saw no reason to mention that. “I baked this morning, and brought you a raised pie. Ham, onions, and potatoes.”

  The Colonel smiled with hungry anticipation as I lifted the little pie from the basket, and a bottle of small beer to go with it. Although he had the room’s single window open behind him, the office was very warm on this early summer afternoon. He’d taken off his coat and unbuttoned and folded up his shirtsleeves to his elbows. Those bare forearms made me think not of a distinguished jurist, but of a common laborer eyeing the pie as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

  “I thought I was dreaming that delicious fragrance, even before you appeared,” he said, clearing a place on the desk before him. “Before we’d come to Albany, I’d believed that the quality of my wife’s table was due to Chloe. How mistaken I was!”

  “At the Hermitage it was Chloe’s doing,” I said, coming around the desk to set the pewter plate with the pie before him. “I learned much from her.”

  “Then the fair apprentice has surpassed her master,” he said, and looked up at me over the pie.

  “You are generous, sir,” I said, and swiftly moved back to the other side of the desk. I felt more at ease with a sizable piece of heavy mahogany between us.

  Yet in perfect honesty, he had been so delighted and occupied with his new wife since he had moved us all to Albany that he’d apparently forgotten any unfortunate desires he might once have had toward me. That was as it should be between man and wife. I was grateful for his marital contentment, for it had made me feel less guarded in his company.

  Still, I’d always found conversing with him to be easier than with Mistress. He liked to speak freely with me, too, so much so that I was astonished once to hear Mrs. DeVisme describe him as tightlipped. He was not that way with me. He’d always shown me more kindness than any other white person had. He never berated me, or treated me as if I were half-witted, and he’d never once struck me in anger or as punishment.

  Little wonder, then, that I was pleased to have in turn pleased him with my cooking. The way he began to tear into the little pie was proof enough of that. He ate with relish, taking large bites and smiling as he chewed, long and slow to savor the flavors. He broke off pieces of the crust with his fingers and swiped them through the sauce that had gathered on the edges of the plate, not wanting so much as a drop to be lost, and he licked his fingers as well, not gentlemanly, but satisfying to watch. For a cook, there was no happier sight.

  “I must return to the house, sir,” I said at last. “I must begin supper.”

  “Supper can wait,” he said easily, the way he often swept away objections that didn’t suit him. “I was planning to visit the shop down the street before they close for the day, and buy Mrs. Burr some pretty trifle to cheer her spirits. You know her tastes. Come with me, and help me decide.”

  A short time later, I stood with him in the shop of Mrs. Gysbert, a milliner favored by Mistress. He had, of course, once again buttoned the cuffs on his shirt and resumed his coat, the very picture of a prosperous attorney, and the shopkeeper and her assistant were quick to fawn over him. I stood silently to one side with my gaze lowered and my hands clasped before me, as was usual for me while accompanying Mistress into a shop like this one. It wasn’t just to appear meek, but also to keep my hands where Mrs. Gysbert could see them, to make it more difficult for her to accuse me of thievery.

  “I do have something exceptional, Colonel Burr, a lovely piece that only came into my possession this very morning,” Mrs. Gysbert said, leaning a fraction too far across the counter toward him. She was a stylishly dressed woman, as milliners usually were to advertise their trade, with an extravagantly ruffled cap over her auburn hair. “Agatha, you know which piece I mean, the one Captain Evert brought today.

  “Evert, eh?” the Colonel said, smiling as the assistant brought a pasteboard box from the back. “Do not tell me you’re encouraging smuggling, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Gysbert sighed deeply, and touched her fingers to her sizable bosom.

  “Oh, Colonel, I beg you, do not be cruel to me,” she said. “Widows such as I must do what we must. If Captain Evert were to carry goods to me from the Tory shopkeepers in New York who are all a-panic, shopkeepers who will offer the best prices before they must flee with the British army, then that is simply wise business. Ah, here we are.”

  She opened the box with a flourish, and drew forth a sizable sheer kerchief, deeply edged with lace.

  “There now, Colonel Burr,” she said, draping it over her arm to display it. “Imagine how this will please your lady! That’s the finest French lace, such as the virgins make in French convents.”

  “Mrs. Burr does admire lace,” he said, lightly touching the kerchief. “Mary Emmons, here. What do you make of this lace? Do you think my wife would like it?”

  I stepped forward as he’d asked. Smuggled or not, it was beautiful lace, stitched along a square of the finest linen, and it reminded me of long-ago pieces that had been in Madame Beauharnais’s wardrobe.

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “It’s Alençon lace, of the best quality. Any lady would like it.”

  “Come, sir, I cannot believe you’d trust your decision to your mulatto girl,” said Mrs. Gysbert, almost scolding. “A gentleman of your discernment can judge the quality of the lace for himself. Goodness knows when we’ll see lace this fine in Albany again.”

  His smile hardened in a way I hadn’t expected. “Mary served a French lady before my wife,” he said. “I’ll wager she knows more about that lace than I ever could learn.”

  I glanced up at him swiftly. He wasn’t just defending my right to speak and hold an opinion of my own. He was saying that my opinion was likely better than Mrs. Gysbert’s, or his own.

  “Forgive me, sir, but I didn’t realize she was French trained,” the milliner said meekly, scrambling so as not to lose a customer. “No wonder the girl is valuable to you.”

  “Wrap the kerchief for Mrs. Burr,” he said, ignoring the milliner’s comments. “You may put it to my account.”

  “Of course, sir, of course,” she said, handing the kerchief to the assistant. She glanced back at me, then at the Colonel. “In that same lot from Captain Evert were a collection of linen short gowns, sir. If you wish to, ah, reward your wench, I daresay they’d suit.”

  I expected him to ignore this attempt at a further sale, too, but instead he turned toward me.

  “Tell me, Mary,” the Colonel said. “How long has it been since you’d a new gown or petticoat from Mrs. Burr?”

  “Never, sir,” I said, the truth. “Colonel Prevost bought me my clothes when I first came to New York, but they were not new.”

  “Nothing since Prevost?” he said, his brows rising with incredulity. “Well, then it’s past time. Mrs. Gysbert, show us your stock.”

  This time the milliner didn’t drape her goods over her arm, but simply put a stack of folded short gowns and bed jackets on the counter.

  “Choose one that you like, Mary,” he said. “And a petticoat as well, Mrs. Gysbert. Add them both to the tally.”

  Boldly I reached out to touch the stack of gowns. The linen was coarse and the prints clumsily done, meant only for servants, and the garments themselves were boxy and unfitted to suit a variety of figures. But never in my life had I been the first person to wear anything, and this rare chance to make a choice of my own was nearly overwhelming, as was the Colonel’s unexpected generosity.

  “You’re wise to dress the wench in new colors, Colonel Burr,” the milliner said over my head,
as if I weren’t standing before her. “It’s the best way to catch her if she gets it into her head to try to run from you and your wife. Bright clothes to mark down in the advertisement. That’s how General Schuyler caught his runaway Negress last fall. Diana, I think it was.”

  I forgot the clothes before me, and thought instead of Diana of The Pastures. Had I seen her? Had we stood near each other in that grand front hall? I didn’t know her by name, but most likely she’d been somewhere nearby when I’d followed Mistress to call upon Mrs. Schuyler.

  “They say she hid with a Scotsman for a time,” Mrs. Gysbert continued, “but it was her clothes that betrayed her in the end. At least the General was able to sell her south before she tried again, as a lesson to the rest of his lot.”

  My thoughts raced back to the first runaway notice I’d ever seen, the first I’d read with Lucas, for the Negro wench Hannah, dressed in a coarse blue-and-white chintz gown and a striped petticoat. To Mrs. Gysbert and so many like her, the gaily printed flowers and twisting vines on the garments before me weren’t intended to reflect the taste of the wearer, but to mark her as surely as a brand burned into her flesh or the scars left by a whip on her back, and to make her easy to identify and capture if she dared to flee.

  I drew back my hand, all my pleasure gone, and bowed my head. None of it was right. None of it was fair.

  “Choose, girl,” Mrs. Gysbert said impatiently. “Don’t keep your master waiting.”

  Without turning, I could feel the Colonel’s questioning gaze upon me. Yet my thoughts were so mired in anger and confusion and disappointment that I couldn’t bring myself to speak, fearing what regretful things I might say.

  “The blue flowers, then, and the red petticoat,” he said, finally speaking for me. “That will be all for today.”