The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr

by Susan Holloway Scott

  “What are those things for?” she said, pointing up to where I hung pots and pans and other useful implements from a rack of iron hooks up high, where they’d be both out of the way and within easy reach. Also hanging nearby from the beams were braided ropes of onions and bundles of dried herbs, and on the shelves that lined the walls were plates and platters of every description, plus fluted pans for cakes and pies and shaped molds for sweet jellies. Because I saw it all every day, I thought nothing of it, but to Miss Burr, more accustomed to the tidiness and elegance of her mother’s fine parlor, this was probably fascinating.

  “Those are all things that I use when I cook for you and your family,” I said, taking a well-cured ham from the safe to slice for frying. “Do you think all I must do is snap my fingers and your supper is ready?”

  She wrinkled her nose and smiled. While I’d little experience with children, highborn or low, I guessed she’d be like people of any age, and find comfort from familiar food. I placed a thick piece of bread into the toaster on the hearth near the coals, and asked her to watch it carefully and tell me when it was done on the first side and ready to spin. This she did, and took credit for it being perfectly browned. I let her spoon the jam onto the toast herself, large, glistening dollops of blackberries, and I pretended not to see when an extra spoonful disappeared directly into her mouth.

  Other servants came for the porridge that was their breakfast before they began their duties. Though they were surprised at first to find the Colonel’s daughter in our midst, she made amusing company, and seemed to enjoy us as well. We all were aware that Mistress was laboring upstairs, but everyone took care not to mention it before her daughter. I kept waiting for word that breakfast was wanted in the dining room, and when that word didn’t come, I feared for the worst.

  I showed Miss Burr how to mix chocolate into steamed milk, and had just set her to work twisting the rod of the chocolate mill between her palms when at the door I heard footsteps in the hall. I turned quickly just as the Colonel opened the door. His expression was carefully composed, yet his fresh grief was too heavy a burden to be shrugged away that easily.

  But Miss Burr, in her childish innocence, didn’t see it, and clambered down from the chair to run to him, her slippers slapping on the brick floor. He gathered her up in his arms and held her tightly, his eyes closed. She didn’t ask any questions, and he offered nothing; even then, they seemed to sense each other’s thoughts without words. Finally he sighed, and curled his arm beneath her to make her more secure.

  “Come, poppet,” he said, his voice heavy. “Let me take you to see Mama.”

  News traveled fast through our house, and we servants soon learned the reason for his sorrow. Mistress had been delivered of a large and handsome boy, perfectly formed and exactly as they had both wanted, and predicted. But while the child had been lively even as she’d labored, through some tragic mishap he had perished in her channel, and had been delivered stillborn.

  Now there are some cruel folk who will say that women grow accustomed to losses like these, and accept them with grace and resignation. This was now the third child Mistress had lost, and I assure you that her grief had no grace, no resignation, nor should it have. She was devastated by so unexpected an outcome after her difficult travail, and it left her broken in spirit as well as body. She faulted herself for her son’s death, and refused to be consoled. Finally the Colonel had agreed to the doctor’s prescription of a mixture of brandy and laudanum, both to ease her suffering and to help restore her strength through sleep.

  I was summoned by the midwives to help wash and prepare the baby for burial. I’d known much of death, but the sight of this poor small body made me add my own tears to those of the others who wept over him. It shook me, that pitiful little man: the limbs still curled from the womb, the dark hair already destined to be like his father’s, the cord neatly tied on his rounded belly with the midwife’s thread. The other two babes Mistress had lost had remained in this world long enough to be baptized before their tiny mortal souls had fluttered away. This one had not. He’d no name, no blessing, and, so the midwives whispered, he’d no place in the consecrated ground of St. John’s burying ground.

  As sad as the house had become, there was still a near-constant procession of callers to the front door, come to express their sympathies. Most left a brief note of condolence that was brought from their carriages to the house by servants. Only the closest of acquaintances were shown in to the Colonel, who received them stoically with Mistress’s sons in the parlor. It was a long, exhausting day of grief, disappointment, and fear for Mistress.

  Yet when I’d finally finished in the kitchen that night, I found I was too weary and on edge to sleep. My thoughts had twisted from Mistress’s loss to my own mother, and how she had died while I had lived.

  Long after everyone else had retired, I remained in the kitchen, reading one of the household’s newspapers by the light of the coals as I did most nights. No matter how arduous my day might have been or how tired I was, there was so much occurring in the city, the state, the country, that I could not imagine keeping myself ignorant, given the chance to be otherwise. On this night in particular, I gave myself over to the printed words as a distraction, sitting at the table with the paper spread before me.

  I was so engrossed in my reading that I started when the door to the hall opened.

  “I saw the light beneath the door,” the Colonel said. “I guessed it would be you.”

  He paused at the door, waiting to be invited in, which was, of course, unnecessary. He hadn’t yet undressed, and wore the same severe black suit as he had since morning. His face was so inexpressibly sad that he seemed to have aged five years in a day.

  I rose swiftly, curtseyed, and motioned for him to sit in the best of the chairs, the one with the tall back and arms and a flattened calico cushion. He sank into it with a grunt that was halfway to a groan, and glanced past me to the hearth.

  “Is there any coffee remaining?” he asked.

  “There is always coffee, sir,” I said, reaching for a saucer and cup from the shelf. This was true. Because he often worked at odd hours or roamed the house when he couldn’t sleep, I usually kept coffee at the ready for him. “How does Mistress fare?”

  “Not well, as is to be expected,” he said. “But the doctors and midwife cautiously agree that with rest and time, she shall recover. There is a nurse sitting with her now, even though with the laudanum she’ll sleep until tomorrow. She blames herself, no matter what is said to her. To recover from that—that will be the true trial.”

  “Oh, sir, Mistress shouldn’t fault herself,” I said softly, handing him the cup. “She took every care.”

  “So I have told her, and Dr. Walker as well,” he said, his eyes unfocused as he drank his coffee. He never sipped at it, no matter how hot, but simply drank it as if it were water. “The child was taken by God, and is at peace now in His embrace.”

  I sat on the stool beside his chair. “It’s not your fault, either, sir. None of it.”

  “If you had been raised among staunch Presbyterians as was I, then you would understand,” he said. “What is more fearsome than a vengeful Lord God?”

  He grimaced, his attempt at cynicism failing miserably.

  “Nothing you have ever done could merit the death of your child,” I said softly. “Nothing, mind?”

  I wasn’t sure he heard me, until he took my hand and laced his fingers tightly into mine.

  “The little fellow never knew how much he was wanted, or loved,” he said, his voice low and poignant. “He died without knowing any of that.”

  “But he did know, sir,” I insisted. “Every time he leaped and turned within Mistress’s womb at the touch of her hand, or the sound of your voice, or even his sister’s laughter, he knew it.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not certain of that, Mary. It’s well-argued that life—and knowledge—requires birth. Because the child lacked one, he never achieved the second.”
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  “I know for myself, sir.” I spoke with an urgency I didn’t quite understand myself. “My own mother died giving birth to me. I have no memory of her. None. Yet I am certain she loved me.”

  He frowned. “That does not seem possible, Mary. Perhaps you instead recall the affection of your father, and mistake it for the love of your mother.”

  “That is not possible, sir.” I swallowed, for I’d never told him the circumstances of my birth, but now—now it seemed as if I must. “My father was a British soldier who raped my mother.”

  “Ahh.” He drew back a fraction and released my hand. “If that is so, then I cannot imagine how your mother could have felt any fondness for a child whose very presence would be a constant reminder of such a reprehensible crime of war.”

  I hadn’t expected that from him. But then, given the comfortable luxury of his own family and birth, how could I have expected anything else?

  “Because she was my mother, sir,” I said. “That is the truth I have always believed. There is no logic to love. I know she loved me, just as your son would have known that he was loved as well.”

  He didn’t reply, and carefully set the now-empty cup on the table. But his head dropped forward with sorrow, and his shoulders bowed beneath the weight of it.

  The silence of his grief seemed far more terrible to me than Mistress’s wracking sobs and laments. I could not help myself. I rose, and went to him, and bent to wrap my arms around his shoulders and rested my cheek against his temple. I’d never touched him first like this, never touched him except in response to how he’d touched me.

  This was different. I held him close to share his pain and offer my solace, without words. I’ll admit that I drew comfort in this embrace, too, and in the closeness that came with it. There’d been precious little of either in my life, and I wouldn’t question it now.

  I’m not sure how long we remained like that. At last he sighed, and as he did I stepped away. But he took my hand again to keep me close, and once he’d stood, he drew me into his arms and held me, just held me.

  “Thank you, Mary,” he said against my ear. “You’re every bit as wise and kind as you are beautiful.”

  He kissed me lightly on the lips, his mouth barely brushing over mine, then kissed my forehead. As he left, his steps were slow and heavy on the stairs.

  Poor man, I thought sadly. Poor, grieving man.

  And I realized that, for the first time, I’d thought of him as more than Mistress’s husband.

  * * *

  As soon as Mistress recovered sufficiently for travel, she took her two daughters, Ginny, me, Mr. Partridge (the tutor for Miss Burr), and another woman recommended for her nursing skills for a prolonged stay with her sister. The announced purpose was to remove Mistress to a healthier location, away from the foul air and racketing of New York, where she could recover both her health, and her peace. Mrs. Browne’s husband was a physician, and trusted by the Colonel, and he, too, promised to watch carefully over her, and make certain she dined properly and took exercise, as had been prescribed.

  But though no one would say so beyond the family, Mistress’s health was not the only concern. Little Sally, who had reached but two years in June, was not flourishing as she should. Although Sally was in spirit as merry and quick as her older sister, she had begun to be plagued by a myriad of ailments, most often a seemingly endless complaint of the bowels that left her exhausted and weak and small for her years.

  I sensed the shared anxiety during this time from the number of letters written back and forth between Mistress and the Colonel, often sent and arriving with every stage. Mistress read aloud the cheerful parts to Miss Burr and to Miss Sally, too, but I could tell from how her expression changed that she’d skip over parts when she’d reach yet another worried inquiry after Sally’s health.

  At her husband’s urging, Mistress and the rest of us remained in the country and away from town through the summer to avoid fevers. These were a yearly curse in New York, and could easily have carried away Mistress and her daughters alike. With the frost and the end of the contagion, we finally returned to the city.

  I was glad of it. I was now accustomed to having more responsibility in the household than simply looking after Mistress. I’d grown restless while we’d been away, and I hadn’t liked taking orders from Mistress’s sister, Mrs. Browne, either, who set me to tedious tasks such as sewing sheets simply because she believed me to be idle and impudent. I’d also missed my own acquaintances among other servants in our neighborhood, people who’d greet me by name and not only as belonging to Mistress.

  We returned by the stage, and were met at the inn by the Colonel and Mistress’s sons. Their reunion was joyous, with none of them caring about who else at the inn witnessed all the kisses and embraces and exclamations. I’d no one to meet me, nor had I expected there to be, and thus busied myself by making sure none of Mistress’s baggage was stolen.

  But while the Colonel was all happy smiles at our return, I didn’t miss the shock on the faces of the two boys—less skilled at masking their reactions—when they first saw Miss Sally again as, with a squeal of delight, she was plucked from the carriage by her father. We who were with her each day were not as aware of her decline as they would be. The Colonel must have seen it as well, for he held her close, and insisted on carrying her home himself in the crook of his arm, with Miss Burr hopping along beside him and hanging on his other hand.

  The happiest reunion, however, was between Mistress and the Colonel. Throughout the evening, he praised and petted her at every opportunity while she blushed as if she were sixteen instead of forty-one. They presented each other with journals they’d kept while apart, and the Colonel had increased the sweetness of that gift not with a jewel, as most fond husbands would, but with a stack of the latest books that he’d ordered for her from his bookseller in London. She cried out with delight and wept as well, and could not have been happier. They could scarcely wait for the children to be taken to bed before they, too, retired to their bedchamber, and did not call for breakfast until nearly noon the following day.

  Beyond the simplest of greetings, the Colonel had no time to spare upon me. A blessing, that. I began to set to rights everything that had been allowed to grow slipshod in the house while I’d been away.

  This became more toil than I’d expected since, while I’d been away with Mistress, the Colonel had seen fit to sell Celia. I was shocked, but not surprised, if that makes sense. Not surprised, for Celia, who had been brought to New York direct on a ship from Gambia, had struggled to learn both English and Mistress’s ways. Shortly before we’d left for Mistress’s sojourn in the country, Celia had dropped and broken a Chinese porcelain jar, edged with gold—worth far more than poor Celia herself—that had belonged to Mistress’s grandmother.

  Still, I’d never expected the Colonel to act upon Mistress’s discontent with such suddenness. From the swiftness of this action, Celia might never have dwelled within the house at all. She was not mentioned again, not by any of us servants, almost as if her sale and disappearance were a disease that could pass from one of us to another. Nor did I ever see her again, in the streets or markets or at church, which likely meant she’d been sold far from New York, perhaps even to work the fields of a Virginia plantation. It could happen to any of us, at any time, and that sobering knowledge hovered over us all like a cloud—which was, perhaps, exactly what Mistress had wanted.

  At the end of the year, the house was filled with the customary share of guests and family for the holiday season, work and more work for me. There were twenty to dine at the grandest of the dinners, with many dishes of rich food and wine, port, and brandy. After the last of the plates were cleared away, the Colonel rose at the head of the table to lead the first toast of the night.

  “À mon Theo,” he said, his glass held high. “Au plus parfait des femmes, et mon cher ami.”

  A murmur of agreement followed as the guests emptied their glasses in Mistress’s honor, and t
hen waited while Tom and I filled them once again.

  Now it was Mistress’s turn. For Christmas the Colonel had given her a magnificent necklace, a ring of golden topaz stones to match the earrings and brooch that had been earlier gifts of his. She glittered and sparkled in the candlelight, her eyes bright and her dark hair frizzed and puffed into the latest French fashion, with small white plumes tucked into the curls. She raised her glass and held it high, smiling as she saw the anticipation in the faces around the table.

  “Pour mon Aaron,” she said, and then switched to English so everyone would understand her. “My love, my husband, the father of my daughters, and, God willing by summer, our son as well.”

  At once she was overwhelmed by a noisy clamor of good wishes. Her announcement was, of course, not news to me. I’d known—as had the Colonel—that she was again with child weeks ago. Given her age, her uncertain health, and the sorrowful outcome of her last pregnancy, a less jubilant announcement might have seemed more appropriate. But then I had tended her through her last unhappy confinement, while these others cheering her at the table had not, and if the Colonel himself, beaming now with male pride, was happy with her announcement, then why should I be otherwise?

  “Now surely you and the girls must come visit me as you’re always promising, Theo, and bring Frederick and Bartow, too,” said Mrs. Williamson, one of Mistress’s innumerable cousins. “This would be the perfect time, before you grow too unwieldy, and you know how all children thrive at Williamson Hall.”

  “How dare you make such an invitation, Juliana?” the Colonel asked, his smile taking any sting from his words. “To send her traipsing about in the snow in her condition, to wait upon your whims!”

  “She wouldn’t be traipsing anywhere, Aaron, as you know perfectly, perfectly well,” said Mrs. Williamson. “I’d send my own coachman in the sleigh, with orders that your three ladies be swathed in furs and arranged with coals at their feet. There’s no smoother way to travel than by sleigh, and the entire journey would be complete in less than an hour’s time.”