The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr

by Susan Holloway Scott

  Tonight Mistress’s arrival would be safely in the middle. I could tell from the set of his feathered hat that Jem, Mistress’s driver, was pleased with our place in the line. It reflected honorably on Mistress, and therefore on him, too. I suppose I could claim my share of the credit as well for having Mistress dressed and ready at the precise moment that Jem had drawn up before the front door. The more successful the Colonel became, the more effort it took by me and the others to present that success to the world.

  For now, however, I was simply thankful to be sitting where I was. Louisa was cutting teeth, and we’d both spent several miserable, sleepless nights because of it. But where she could sleep during the day, I’d no choice but to work as usual, and I welcomed this rare chance to sit and do nothing. I rode high on the box beside Jem, where we’d enjoy the breezes from the river at the end of this warm September day, while Mistress likely sweltered below in her splendid closed solitude. The sleek little chaise and the two horses that drew it had been one of the Colonel’s latest purchases, for while he was content to travel about the state on his business by way of public stages and sloops, he wanted his wife to be driven about the city in the most elegant style.

  At last our turn came to stop before the President’s House, a stately brick house three stories tall and five windows wide. Swiftly I clambered down from the box as the footman opened Mistress’s door and handed her down. She paused expectantly, waiting for me to step behind her to adjust her peacock-blue silk skirts so they trailed behind her in the short train that had become the fashion. Then she glided up the white marble steps and into the house while I followed at a proper distance.

  To most eyes, I was no more than another sign of the Colonel’s prosperity, like the chaise or the jewels around Mistress’s throat. My very person was an enviable luxury. When the Washingtons had brought a dozen or so of their slaves with them from Mount Vernon to New York as house and body servants, they’d set one more fashion in the new capital. Now when I accompanied Mistress, I also wore a silk gown, chestnut brown and plainly cut much like the dress worn by Lady Washington’s girl, who was also light skinned. It was our form of the livery worn by the men, calculated to impress others rather than to flatter us.

  Only I knew that my presence was much more than that.

  Even in Lady Washington’s large drawing room I remained close to Mistress like a respectful shadow. I handed her her fan when she grew too warm, and I fetched her tea prepared as she preferred, with an abundance of sugar. I saw that her cup was kept filled, and though I knew she’d no taste for the ice cream that was served later, I brought her the smallest possible serving so that she could pretend to have enjoyed the indulgent treat along with the other ladies.

  But I also watched her closely for any sign that she might be faltering, or that the crush of the crowded room was too much for her. As long as I’d served her, she’d suffered from bouts of random illnesses, and her spirit had always been stronger than her mortal body. But since Miss Sally’s death last autumn, these various maladies had increased. Sometimes it was a pain in her breast and side, and on another day it might be an unbearable gripping of her bowels and belly. She tried to brush it all aside as nothing, jesting that her ailments derived only from the trial of living in a city filled with Federalists.

  But the Colonel’s concern grew, and one physician after another was called to tend to her. None could find a reason for her complaints, let alone a cure. Though no one in the household would dare say it aloud, her condition seemed a painful echo of Miss Sally’s final affliction, and the Colonel instructed us all to do whatever we could to ease her every discomfort, and coax her toward recovering her strength.

  We all obeyed. It was Mistress herself who refused to take any additional care, especially when the Colonel was away from town. I’d only to watch her here tonight to see the proof.

  The weekly levees at the President’s House were one of the ways that she sought to help forward the Colonel’s political aspirations. When General Washington had been sworn in as president and the offices, positions, and other favors for the new government were distributed, the Colonel had been optimistic. Given his military record, his legal accomplishments and other merits, and his ever-growing political standing, there seemed few other men in the country who would be more useful or more deserving.

  Yet when all the plum posts had been announced, the Colonel was left with nothing. He had not seemed surprised, and professed to be untroubled by it. I knew he cared, but hid his disappointment well, even as I silently recalled all the times he’d spoken disdainfully of the new president. Only Mistress was openly outraged, convinced that the Colonel’s enemies had succeeded in denying what should have been his.

  That outrage gave her the strength to engage however she could on her husband’s behalf. The Colonel respected her efforts as he did her judgment; he always had. While he was away at court, she held small gatherings and dinners to help smooth over misconceptions and win him more support among those in power. She never missed services on Sundays (something the Colonel himself could not claim), since all the most influential families also belonged to Trinity Church’s congregation. Even when she was confined to her bed by illness, she still wrote letter after letter, many to her husband that were, I suspected, filled with observations and advice based on what she’d seen while he was away.

  Most noticeable of all, she attended these levees at the President’s House. She understood the power of petticoat politics, as she wryly called them, and did her best to coax and charm Mrs. Hamilton, Mrs. Livingston, Mrs. Adams, and all the other wives whose husbands she suspected of undermining the Colonel. Most of all she tried to woo Lady Washington, an older lady with a cloud of white-powdered hair, a plump chin, and a gracious manner. She was much admired among the white populace. Among us servants, however, it was said that she was an unkind owner with a sharp tongue and an overseer who believed in whipping. I’d heard the Washingtons also forbid their people the simple privilege of reading and writing, and it was little wonder that they were closely watched from the constant fear they’d run.

  Mistress was as skillful at this kind of diplomacy as anyone, and as I watched her I thought of how fortunate the Colonel was to have her toiling on his behalf, and not against him. But all that smiling and scraping and clever conversation was hard work, and by nine o’clock I saw that Mistress was tiring, her shoulders sagging and her cheeks pale.

  “Forgive me, Mistress,” I whispered, coming beside her. “Should I send for the carriage?”

  Without turning, she nodded quickly. Within a quarter hour she’d made a final curtsey to Lady Washington, said her other farewells, and been bundled back into her chaise. Yet as I undressed her for the night, she unburdened herself, too.

  “I cannot believe what a pack of deceitful old cats those women are,” she said. “Smile and nod, smile and nod, as if I don’t know their husbands were quick enough to call my Aaron a traitor to their ridiculous Federalist cause!”

  “I’m sorry, Mistress,” I murmured, too tired to do more than half-listen as I eased the pins from her hair. In the past year she’d begun to turn gray, the white hairs stark against her dark, and she’d continued to powder her head to help mask them.

  “It’s an out-and-out disgrace, Mary, and an appalling betrayal as well,” she said, her voice taut with irritation. “The president and his toadies expect complete obeisance. To them a man who thinks for himself is a hazard, not a prize. How readily they can turn even the tiniest whisper into a scandal!”

  As weary as I was, I heard that word “scandal” and my heart quickened with uneasiness. It was a word that white people used to hide all kinds of unpleasantness, all kinds of things they’d been forced to see against their wishes. I would be considered a scandal, and so would my daughter.

  “It’s all because my husband took poor Greenleaf’s civil suit over their ridiculous procession last summer,” she continued, talking to my reflection over her shoulder in her lookin
g glass. “My Aaron did what was right, but what he did pricked the puffed-up pride of Hamilton and Livingston, who went crying to Washington. Oh, it’s clear enough, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Mistress,” I said. This was old news, and had nothing to do with me or my daughter. For now we were safe.

  Besides, none of what Mistress was saying seemed to me to be much of a scandal at all. Soon after the Federalist-sponsored parade in support of the Constitution that I’d attended along with both the Colonel and Miss Burr, the editor of an Anti-Federalist newspaper had dared to print a satire mocking the procession. I’d recalled reading it myself, just as I recalled the Colonel remarking that the piece had only said what needed saying about the infernal procession, anyway.

  But Federalists in the city had taken grave offense, and had stormed the newspaper’s office and destroyed the press. The leader of the attack had been no drunken apprentice, but the parade’s own grand marshal, Colonel William Smith Livingston, an old acquaintance of Colonel Burr’s from the war and from the College of New Jersey. When the editor filed suit for damages, Colonel Burr had chosen to represent the editor as being in the right, not his Federalist friend who wasn’t, and the fact that he’d been successful in court had only increased the insult in Federalist eyes.

  I’d now witnessed enough to understand that mixing politics and lawyers seemed always to lead to heated tempers, empty accusations, and wounded manly pride. The patriotic good humor that had followed President Washington’s inauguration had all but vanished in the city, replaced instead by a constant display of acrimony and accusations between Federalists and Anti-Federalists. The Federalists seemed the more prone to declaring they were absolutely, even violently, in the right, and I recalled how Colonel Burr had wisely explained to his daughter at the parade that emotional displays and politics should never be mixed.

  I also thought of how, while all this was occurring, Colonel and Mrs. Hamilton had ceased to accept Mistress’s invitations to dine. Clearly there were different lessons being taught in the Hamiltons’ house than in the Burrs’.

  Even Miss Burr was aware of the change. The Washingtons’ grandchildren, Miss Nelly Custis, who was ten, and her brother, Master George Custis, who was eight, lived in the President’s House. Small gatherings with dancing were arranged for them with other suitable children, and Miss Burr was invited. I was often her companion when her mother was unwell, and I could see for myself how much more accomplished and well-spoken Miss Burr was at age six than the other, older girls. Doubtless this was on account of her father’s insistence on rigorous education, but I suspected it was also in large part because she spent much more time among adults than children her own age.

  For her own part, Miss Burr was unimpressed by the young Virginians.

  “I don’t know why Mama says I must attend them, Mary,” she said after one such gathering. Because of her youth, I was sent to ride with her in her father’s chaise. She sat beside me in her white linen dress with a wide salmon-colored silk sash and a matching pelisse. Her feet in red slippers didn’t reach the carriage floor, and instead swung back and forth with the motion of the carriage.

  “Nelly Custis is a perfect fool,” she continued. “Her entire conversation is about her wardrobe, and nothing else. She says she’s just now begun lessons on the harpsichord, and that practicing makes her cry. If that is what she has learned at Mrs. Graham’s school, then I’m most grateful that Papa insists I have tutors instead.”

  “Colonel Burr does what he believes is best for you, Miss Burr,” I said mildly, though I knew that, in her heart, she would like nothing better than to be with the other girls at Mrs. Graham’s. “He and your mama both take special care with everything you learn.”

  “Yes, they do.” She smiled and slanted her gaze up toward me, exactly as her father did. “Do you know that the girls at Mrs. Graham’s are taught filigree, fancywork embroidery, and japanning? Papa will laugh aloud when I tell him. Could there be more idle occupations than that, fitting them for nothing of usefulness? I read Herodotus, while they learn japanning.”

  “I’m sure that’s what their parents wish for them, miss,” I said. Doubtless those other parents would be equally horrified by Miss Burr’s curriculum, which the Colonel had proudly designed to be identical to a boy’s.

  “That’s because they are all Federalists, unable to think for themselves,” she said, “which makes them as idle and foolish as their daughters.”

  I raised my brows. “I do not believe your parents would wish you to speak so plainly of your friends, miss.”

  “Oh, indeed not,” she said promptly, sniffling and rubbing at her nose. “Papa says a person of breeding must always strive to be agreeable and at ease, and ignore what others might say or do to vex them.”

  I handed her a fresh handkerchief to replace the one she had inevitably mislaid at the President’s House. “That is wise advice, miss.”

  She blew her nose with noisy exuberance that betrayed her age rather than her breeding.

  “That’s because my papa is a wise man,” she said with a final sniff, rolling the handkerchief into a tight little ball in her palm. “I think he’s the wisest in all New York. Mama says so, too. That is why I hate it when those girls call him names, and say he’s two-faced and false, and other things besides.”

  “They are mistaken, miss,” I said firmly. “You know they are. Politics brings out the worst in people, miss, and makes them say all kinds of foolishness, even about people like your father who do not deserve it.”

  She nodded solemnly. “That’s what Papa says, too. He says I must ignore them, and be better than they are.”

  But though she tried to be resolute, as the Colonel would surely have expected of her, I couldn’t help but see how she seemed to droop beneath those same expectations. I placed my arm lightly across her shoulders, and at once she slid across the bench. With a little sigh, she snugged close to my side, silently seeking relief from the adult foolishness of politics.

  She was still a child, and there were many grown women and men who wilted before the slanders and sharp tongues of others. Surely the Colonel understood the power of words, and the damage they could do as well, especially to those he loved most.

  It was a thought that I often considered over the next days, worrying and fussing at it like a dog with a bone. I’d every reason, too, and I was still afire by the time the Colonel returned home a fortnight later, after a lengthy court case in Poughkeepsie.

  Mistress had gone out in the carriage, and had carried her daughter with her. I was taking advantage of their absence and Louisa’s napping to finish some mending. Earlier in the day, Miss Burr had caught her heel in the hem of one of her dresses, and with Mistress away I’d dared to sit on the cushioned window seat here at the top of the stairs, where the sunlight would be brightest for stitching the delicate white linen.

  I started when I heard the front door open in the hall below; I hadn’t expected Mistress to return so soon. Quickly I bundled away my sewing, and rose before I could be caught where I didn’t belong. But it wasn’t Mistress and Miss Burr who’d returned. It was the Colonel, already at the foot of the stairs.

  “Good day, Mary,” he said, his smile wide and warm as he climbed the steps to join me. “I’m glad to see you. Where are my wife and daughter? I’d expected more of a welcome home.”

  “Good day, sir,” I said, dropping a curtsey to him with my mending in my hands. I wondered why Carlos had not appeared to take his hat and coat, and carry his bags to his room; I’d have to speak to him about that. “They’ve taken the carriage to drive along the river, sir. Mistress wished for a change of air.”

  “Ah.” He paused on the stair, drumming his fingers lightly on the banister. Whenever the Colonel had been away, his return always took me by surprise, as if I were seeing him for the first time. I don’t mean his mere arrival, either. Somehow while we were apart, I forgot the intensity of his very presence, and how it affected me. It was a condition, almost a
n affliction, that is not easy to describe without sounding foolish. Yet every time he came back, it was like this for me: how the air is charged and changed before a rising storm, with rumbling dark clouds that race across the sky, fair crackling with both anticipation and dread of what was to come.

  “How long have they been gone?” he asked.

  “They’ve only just left, sir,” I said as evenly as I could. “I do not expect them back for some time.”

  He nodded, and resumed climbing the stairs. “Then you shall be the one to welcome me home, Mary. Come with me.”

  I waited until he’d passed me on the landing, then followed him.

  “It appears the weather has improved in New York while I was away,” he said, shrugging his arms free of his coat as he entered his bedchamber. “Poughkeepsie was a veritable swamp of rain and flies.”

  “Here the skies have been fair, sir,” I said, from habit taking his coat and folding it. “Forgive me, sir, but we must speak.”

  “Yes, Mary, we must, though from pleasure, not obligation.” He turned to face me and reclaimed his coat, tossing it carelessly over a chair. Gently he took me by the shoulders to draw me closer. “You know how I miss you when we’re apart. Tell me how our little Louisa does.”

  “She flourishes, sir,” I said, smiling a little at the mention of my daughter as I always did. “But it is for Miss Burr that I worry.”

  Instantly his bantering manner vanished. “Is she ill? I’d a letter two days ago from my wife, and she said nothing of any mishap.”

  “She’s perfectly well, sir,” I said quickly. “You needn’t worry for that.”

  “Thank God for that,” he said fervently. Poor man, he’d already had so much stolen from him that even the hint of losing this cherished daughter must have been unbearable, and I placed my hand lightly on his chest.