I nodded. “George Washington is a popular choice these days, sir,” I teased. “George Washington Emmons.”
“I think not,” he said, chuckling. “We can do better than that. I believe Theodosia had the proper notion. A French name perhaps?”
“French names are both elegant and honorable,” I said, liking the idea. “What of Jean? That’s close enough to John that he could be called that as well. Jean Emmons.”
“Jean-Pierre Emmons,” the Colonel declared in his best courtroom voice. “No French baby enters this world without at least two Romish saints to bless him.”
“Jean-Pierre, Jean-Pierre,” I repeated, smiling as I tried the sound of it.
“Then Jean-Pierre he shall be,” he said, and bowed to press his lips to his son’s forehead.
At the Colonel’s insistence, Jean-Pierre was baptized later that autumn at Trinity Church. Because of the humbleness of my son’s parentage, the ceremony was done on a weekday afternoon, with only the Burrs, Louisa, and me present. It was a curious ceremony, too: Mistress had insisted on standing as Jean-Pierre’s godmother, as was often the custom of owners and their slaves, with the Colonel naturally his godfather.
As can be imagined, I wasn’t easy with this decision, but there was no possibility to object without causing more attention than I should. I pretended not to notice how the registrar had delicately drawn a line through the space reserved for “father,” and left space only for my signature. What would they all have done, I wondered, had they known that the true father’s name was already on the same registry page? Yet in this way my children and I had now been grafted onto the Burrs’ mighty family tree, as sizable and noble as any other New England oak. The significance was not lost upon me.
As I stood in the church’s dappled light with my newly christened son in my arms, I’d no notion that this would be among the last occasions for happy celebration that the Burrs would share together. Birth and death too often came closely together in that family, and that would not change now.
* * *
“You should feel some relief within the next several hours, ma’am,” Dr. Bard said. “As I have explained previously, a general course of depletion helps relieve the convulsive action of the blood vessels, and hence lessen the pain.”
He briskly wrapped a narrow strip of linen around Mistress’s arm, over the inside of her elbow whence he’d drawn her blood. It was the third time he’d bled her this week, and her pale skin was mottled and bruised around the cuts that he’d made with the blade of his lancet. Solemnly his assistant took away the small pewter cup, nearly filled with the blood he’d caught from her arm, and passed it to the nurse to empty into the washbowl like a swirling crimson blossom in the water. I didn’t want to consider how much of Mistress’s blood had been drained from her veins over the years.
“I am glad to hear that you concur with Dr. Rush,” the Colonel said as he stood beside the bed. “I’ve always suspected that an imbalance of humors was at the cause of my wife’s suffering.”
At Mistress’s wish, there was a small crowd of us gathered about her: Dr. Bard, his assistant, and the nurse he’d suggested, the Colonel, Miss Burr, and me. The bedchamber was warm with the windows closed, the curtains drawn, and a fire in the grate, as the doctor had also recommended. If I’d been Mistress, I would have much preferred the sweet scents of a June afternoon through my window, but then she’d sadly had far more experience with illness than I, and always followed whatever physicians prescribed.
“You shouldn’t tell one doctor to follow another, Aaron,” Mistress said. She lay pale and wan against the propped pillows, her face pinched with suffering. “They do not like comparison within their trade any more than you do in yours.”
Dr. Bard smiled and nodded as he wiped spatters of her blood from his hands with his handkerchief. I stepped forward, and gently laid a handkerchief dipped in lavender water across her brow, and she sighed her gratitude.
“I take no offense from the senator, ma’am,” the doctor said in the falsely jovial manner that was calculated to encourage his patients. “Dr. Rush is arguably the most esteemed physician in our entire country, even if he is from Philadelphia, not New York.”
“Nor are Dr. Rush’s theories new ones in themselves,” the Colonel said. “Tell me, Theo: who was the first to discover the four humors?”
“Galen of Pergamum,” his daughter answered promptly. “He was the first to declare that blood was the most dominant of the humors, and bloodletting the surest of cures.”
Dr. Bard’s brows rose. “Well, well, Senator,” he said. “It would seem you have a scholar of medicine in the family.”
“My daughter aspires to scholarship,” the Colonel said proudly, resting his hand on Theo’s shoulder. “If she continues to be assiduous in her studies, she may one day merit that distinction.”
I could not agree. It seemed strangely cruel to turn Mistress’s suffering into one more lesson for Miss Burr.
This was not the first time, either. When Mistress was too ill to write to the Colonel directly, he expected his daughter to provide full medical accountings to him of her mother’s condition. I’d seen her labor carefully over these, perfecting her spelling of the difficult terms used by Dr. Bard and others, just as I’d witnessed her dismay when the Colonel returned her letters with her misspelled words corrected, as he customarily did for her own improvement.
But at heart Miss Burr was still a young girl, not a learned scholar, and a daughter with concern for her mother, too. She leaned across the bed to take her mother’s hand in her own, striving to offer as much comfort as she likely received.
“I hope you will be better soon, Mama,” she said softly, stroking her fingers over the back of her mother’s hand. “Perhaps then we can visit the new house.”
“Oh, dearest, I didn’t intend to spoil your excursion today,” Mistress said with regret. “I’d rather you and Papa went without me. You know I always sleep after Dr. Bard visits, and Mrs. Johnson will watch over me. The house will still be there another day, when I’ll be able to appreciate its charms.”
“Are you certain, dearest?” the Colonel said, unconvinced. “There’s no harm in waiting another day for you to join us.”
“There is, because this day is beautiful, and should not be wasted,” she said wistfully. She turned her face as best she could toward the window, and the sun that glowed through the curtain. “I wish for you and Theo to enjoy it. Take Mary with you, too. She has always been skilled at noting particulars of the rooms and conveniences, so I can begin to plan where everything shall be arranged.”
Thus I believed it to be decided, but when I met the Colonel and Miss Burr in the front hall Miss Burr had an additional suggestion.
“We wish you to bring Louisa with us, Mary,” she declared. “Jean-Pierre is too little, but not Louisa. Since she will also come to live with us to Richmond Hill, she should see it, too.”
“Oh, miss, I do not know if that’s wise,” I said at once. “Louisa is working with Peg in the kitchen.”
It wasn’t that my daughter wouldn’t enjoy both the ride and the lawns and gardens that the Colonel had told me surrounded his new house. Louisa was nearly five now. She adored Miss Burr, who in turn petted and indulged her as if she were a doll come to life. But I was always hesitant for the half sisters to appear together before others, from fear that their resemblance would be remarked. The Colonel always scoffed, and said only I saw the likeness because I sought it. He was doubtless right—Louisa was of a darker complexion, darker than I, while Miss Burr was exceptionally fair—yet still I fretted.
I also worried that someone might notice how the Colonel tended to treat the two girls as equals. He ignored my efforts to raise my daughter as she was and what she would be, a chattel slave. I wanted her to be industrious and skilled and accepting of her lot, for that would make her life easier. But if the Colonel bought sugared strawberries for Miss Burr from a vendor in the park, he’d buy another for Louisa as
well. My daughter was still too young to take special notice of these little favors, nor did she think that a lack of a father was remarkable, because many servants’ children among her acquaintance had a similar lack. One day she would, however, and I wondered how much longer I could preserve the myth of her conception.
None of this mattered to the Colonel.
“Bring Louisa, Mary,” he said indulgently. “Who wouldn’t prefer a ride in the country to spending the day in the kitchen?”
I thought of how that was a choice that few people like Louisa and I ever could make for ourselves, but dutifully I hurried her into her best dress, a flower-printed linen that I’d cut down from an old one of Miss Burr’s, with a straw hat over her cap. I quickly suckled Jean-Pierre so he’d sleep, and then we went to join the others.
The Colonel kept a full coach now, painted a glossy dark red with his arms painted on the doors. The carriage could be drawn by a team of either four, or two, depending on the length of the journey. Today two would suffice, since we’d only be traveling three miles or so beyond town. Better yet, the Colonel let us ride together inside, an indulgence that Mistress never permitted.
I’d heard the Colonel speak with admiration of his new property, but even knowing his love of occupying grander and grander residences hadn’t prepared me for his latest prize, a property and house called Richmond Hill. The property consisted of many acres of gardens, greenery, and even a large pond in addition to the house, with so much land that no neighbors were visible. The house itself stood high upon a hill with views of the North River in the distance. Three stories tall and painted white, this house was far larger than any other we’d lived within, even larger and finer than the President’s House had been. A two-story porch with a filigree railing ornamented the front, along with five bays of tall windows, and a long flight of steps that led to the front door. There were also several outbuildings, including a barn, stables, and a house for carriages.
Once we’d stopped at the crest of the drive before the house’s steps, we set the girls down to go across the lawn with the warning that they must remain within sight. The Colonel and I stood on the steps to watch them, an opportunity to speak alone that I hadn’t expected.
“I’ve always admired this house,” he said, glancing back at the house over his shoulder with satisfaction. “When it was Washington’s headquarters during the war and I was his lowly aide-de-camp, I dreamed of living here. The place will require repairs and improvement, of course, considering it’s at least thirty years old. John Adams lived here while he was vice president, though he and his wife did nothing to maintain it.”
Dutifully I looked back as well. This close, it was clear the house needed a fresh coat of paint at the very least, but that sounded as if it would be only the beginning of what he intended. “How fortunate that the house has now come to you, sir.”
“Oh, more than fortunate,” he said lightly. “I represented the heirs of an old deed who claimed the war had made this land belong again to them and not to Trinity Church, who now possess it. The court did not agree, and though I lost the case, in gratitude the kind gentlemen from Trinity offered me the property at a most favorable rate.”
He smiled, the disingenuous smile that meant he’d done something that he realized wasn’t entirely right, but didn’t particularly care.
I looked back to the girls on the lawn, thinking of how all this land now belonged to the Colonel. It hadn’t been so very long ago that we’d all lived crowded together in the first miserable lodgings in Albany. He also intended to keep the sizable brick town house we currently occupied on Partition Street, just west of Broadway and not far from the North River. He and Mistress could rail on all they wished about the vulgarity of the Federalists. The Burrs were no better, not with his house, the glossy red carriage, the matched team of horses, the imported wines and spirits that accompanied every dinner, the paintings and prints in gilded frames that hung on the walls, and the silver tea service that gleamed on its own special table.
“Being a senator must pay handsomely, sir,” I said dryly.
He watched the girls, not meeting my eye. “Six dollars per diem, Mary. That’s what the position pays. No one grows rich on that.”
“It appears you have, sir,” I said. “You are a far better manager than ever I credited.”
He chuckled. “I’ve been able to continue to shepherd a few choice cases through the courts,” he said, “coupled with several wise investments and a modicum of luck. I’ll make no apologies, Mary.”
“It’s not my place to ask you to, sir.”
“Not out loud, no,” he said, his gaze shifting back toward me. “But I know you so well that I can sense your disapproval without you speaking a single word. Wealth that is not enjoyed and put to good use only serves to make a man a miser.”
I didn’t answer, though perhaps according to him, I didn’t need to. Despite his merry aphorisms, I suspected there was much more behind his rise. Last year there had been talk of the Colonel running for governor of New York. While he hadn’t seriously entertained the idea, he’d enough supporters who wished him to do so that he was considered a true candidate, along with General Clinton and the jurist and diplomat John Jay. Finally he withdrew his name from consideration, claiming he’d more to accomplish in Congress.
Nonetheless, the newspapers had found much to say about him, both good and bad. For every line of praise, there’d been more hints of dubious land speculations, gifts from wealthy merchants who sought favors in return, and out-and-out bribery. To be sure, he was not alone in this. Most every New York gentleman believed in taking whatever opportunities presented themselves, and turning a blind eye to any improprieties. The Colonel had brushed the stories aside, claiming they were all empty rumors produced by Colonel Hamilton and his followers with the purpose of discrediting him.
Still, I could not help but think of another aphorism: where there is smoke, there is fire, and there was often more smoke puffing about the Colonel than from a chimney in December. Who could look at Richmond Hill and think otherwise?
We called the girls to us, and began to survey the house’s interior. I’d brought a small commonplace book with me, and industriously made the notes that Mistress had requested: the number of windows in each room, the condition of the floors and stairs, and if there were signs of mice, birds, or dampness having made their way within.
For their part, the two girls enjoyed the echoes of their own voices and footfalls in the empty rooms. But the Colonel’s mood grew increasingly more somber as we walked through the house, and by the time we had returned to the front steps he’d nearly ceased to speak at all. He sent the girls to pick flowers for Mistress, and then stood in silence for another few minutes beside me.
“Do you think my wife will like this house, Mary?” he asked at last.
“Oh, sir,” I said. “How could she not?”
He pulled off his hat and blotted his brow with his handkerchief, but then kept his hat lowered in his hand as if he’d forgotten it was there.
“She has always been content wherever we’ve lived,” he said. “All she’s ever desired for happiness was her family and her books.”
“This house will have much room for both, sir,” I said. “The country air will be better for her than the city, too.”
He fell silent again, absorbed in his thoughts with his hat still in hand and the breeze fluttering the black bow on his queue.
“I’m losing her, Mary,” he said at last, so quietly I nearly didn’t hear him. “Her constitution has been fragile from the first, but now she’s slipping from me. I can tell from her eyes, by how hard she must labor to hide her pain from me.”
“I am sorry, sir,” I said. There was no use in denying what was so sadly evident. “For you, and for her.”
He looked down. “I asked her yesterday if she wished me to resign my seat in Congress to be with her. She would not hear of it.”
He reached blindly for my hand, but I stepped b
ack, away from him. Tears stung my eyes. I didn’t wish to be cruel to him, not now, but I’d no choice.
“Forgive me, sir,” I whispered. “But you cannot hold my hand, not before Miss Burr and Louisa.”
He nodded, and still looking ahead and not at me, he settled his hat back upon his head.
“Then call me by name, Mary,” he said. “This once, let me not be sir, but Aaron.”
“Oh, sir,” I said. “Is that wise?”
“I do not know,” he said, “but today I believe it is . . . necessary.”
I sighed, a small breath of acceptance. “Very well, Aaron.”
“Thank you, Mary,” he said as Miss Burr and Louisa came bounding toward us with a basket filled with wildflowers. “Thank you.”
* * *
The Colonel’s household moved to Richmond Hill in late autumn, shortly before Congress resumed in November. Although there was still much work to be done about the house, the rooms were freshly painted and many of the walls covered with bright-patterned papers from France. Some of the furnishings had been shifted from the house in Partition Street, but most were new, featuring carved and polished woods and rich silk upholstery.
I was pleased by my new quarters as well. At first the Colonel had offered me the use of a small cottage on the property. But while the little house and the privacy it offered was tempting, I decided for Louisa’s sake it was better to be in the main house, where there were more eyes to watch over her when I couldn’t. I was given quarters in the cellar near the kitchen, much as I’d had both in the Broadway house and on Partition Street, but larger, with more room for Louisa.
Mistress declared it to be the most beautiful home in creation, and vowed she’d never leave it for another. Her words proved tragically accurate. Although the air at Richmond Hill was sweet and free of the coal smoke and seagoing stench from the docks, it was not enough to cure her. Her mother and her sisters and their families came to visit during the Christmas holiday, as they’d often done before, but this time the celebrations were subdued, and more tearful farewells than any rejoicing. After they’d all departed, Mistress seemed to grow weaker by the day. She was seldom able to leave her bed, but instead lay curled on her side as if surrounding the pain that ate at her belly.
The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr Page 44
