More shocking, however, was the news that came at the end of the year. Colonel Hamilton resigned from his post at the Treasury, and was leaving the government and Philadelphia to return to New York with his family. Many Republicans rejoiced to see this most powerful of Federalists gone from Philadelphia. The Colonel didn’t, especially once the reason became known. Mrs. Hamilton had suffered a miscarriage, and the Colonel had himself endured too much similar sorrow himself to gloat at their loss. Nor did he believe that Colonel Hamilton was truly removed from politics, but would instead likely still continue to maneuver from behind the scenes, especially in the state politics of New York.
One evening before we returned to New York for the winter recess, the Colonel told me to fetch my cloak to walk with him. I was surprised, because I knew he’d plans to dine with other gentlemen. The evening was crisp and wintery enough to keep most people in their houses, yet the Colonel walked with such purpose that I knew this was not simply a pleasant stroll. At last he stopped, and pointed to a handsome brick house on the corner, across Fourth Street.
“I wanted to bring you here before we left, Mary,” he said. “I’ll wager you’d no notion that I lived in Philadelphia before, there in that corner house.”
“Truly, sir?” I asked uncertainly, not sure whether to believe him or not. It seemed odd that he’d never mentioned this before.
He nodded, gazing up at the house. “It remains the residence of Dr. William Shippen, and for a time it was mine as well. I do not recall much of my tenure, however, for I was only two years old at the time.”
“Were your parents with you, too, sir?” He’d told me before that he and his sister had been orphaned as young children, but little else beyond that.
He shook his head, still looking at the house. “My parents had both died by then. My father first, then my mother, in swift succession. Sally and I were next sent to our mother’s people, but then my grandmother died, and my grandfather as well. Without anyone else, Dr. Shippen became our guardian.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” He’d never told me this before. “How cruel for two young children to be left so alone!”
“It was,” he said, and finally I heard a note of regret to his voice. “After Dr. Shippen, we were given over to my uncle’s care. We did not see eye to eye, my uncle and I. He judged me willful, and believed a sound beating was the only cure. You were not the only one who ran away, Mary.”
“Truly, sir?”
He nodded, an odd half smile on his face. “I was determined to escape and become a cabin boy, and sail the seas far from my uncle and my tutors,” he said. “I’d actually signed the master’s papers and was aboard the vessel when my uncle found me. I scampered to the top of the mast and refused to come down until he promised not to thrash me again.”
“Did he keep his promise, sir?” I already knew the answer.
“Not at all,” he said wryly. “He might not have put a dog’s collar around my neck as was done to you, but I was closely watched so I wouldn’t flee again.”
I thought of how fascinated he’d always been by the faint scars around my throat. Now I understood.
“I was so young when my parents died that my grandmother is the only one I can recall,” he said, again looking up at the house before us. “It’s only the faintest memory at that, of her holding me as she sat in a rocking chair near a window.”
“I remember my grandmother, too,” I said impulsively. “Ammatti was the only one who did not despise me. She sang to me when she held me, and called me her little pigeon, and taught me first of spices and cooking.”
He turned to look at me. “You never speak of India, Mary.”
“It was a long time ago,” I said. “And I wasn’t Mary then. I was Veeya.”
“Veeya, sweet Veeya,” he repeated, relishing the foreignness of my first name. “Perhaps I should call you that again.”
“No, sir.” I drew my cloak more closely about my shoulders, as if that worn wool could protect me from all my old sorrows. “It—it has no place here. Ammatti died when I was seven. Once she was gone, there was no one left who loved me. Like you.”
“Like me,” he said quietly. “We’ve both of us our sad beginnings, haven’t we?”
I nodded, thinking of how the tragedies had continued through our lives. He’d lost his wife and I’d lost my husband, and he’d also seen three of his four children with Mistress die as well. So much sorrow, so many losses of those we’d held dear. Though it was wrong of me in so public a place, I couldn’t help but slip my hand into his as we stood side by side, there on the corner in the dusk.
He didn’t rebuff me, but tightened his fingers more closely into mine.
“I saw Mrs. Madison today in passing,” he said, in the same quiet manner. “She asked me if you remained in my service, or had found another place here in Philadelphia.”
“You told her the truth, didn’t you?” I said quickly. “That I was still in your household?”
“I did, Mary,” he said. “I did. Come, let’s return to the inn.”
We walked on in silence, and he said nothing more that evening of either his childhood or Mrs. Madison. But it did not take much for me to decipher his meaning, whether he’d intended it to be so or not.
He’d shown me the place where he’d been taken as an orphan. He’d told me of his mother, father, grandmother, grandfather, all of whom had died and left him behind, to later be followed by his wife and three of their four children. He’d been the survivor, the one who remained.
Surviving often means being left alone, however, as I knew all too well myself. We shared that, yes. It was also clear that when he’d mentioned Mrs. Madison, it was his way of telling me he didn’t wish me to be the next to abandon him.
But I understood his meaning, for I felt some of it myself. A little while longer, I’d told myself. In the spring, when I had more money saved, when the weather was warmer, when we returned to Philadelphia. A score of reasons and excuses, anything but the truth.
I stayed because of him.
What I didn’t realize then was that the Colonel was making plans of his own. At the same time that he’d been fighting his several battles on behalf of the Republicans in Congress, he’d also been preparing for a heady future in New York that could change all our lives.
He told me when we were again at Richmond Hill, the evening after Twelfth Night. Rather, he did not tell me. He mentioned it in passing, as if it were already common knowledge, and of little consequence—which it decidedly was not.
The big house had been filled with guests for the holiday who’d all now departed, and even Miss Burr and Mademoiselle Delage had returned to Madame Senat’s care. The Colonel, the servants Thomas and Alexis, and I were ourselves to leave for Philadelphia the following morning. Nearly everything was packed in readiness.
I’d said good night to Louisa and Jean-Pierre, my heart already aching at the prospect of leaving them in the morning, and I’d come here to the dining room to pack a few large serving salvers that the Colonel had decided to bring with him to Philadelphia. I didn’t trust any of the other servants to do this. The salvers had belonged to Mistress and her mother before that, and could not be replaced.
“Here you are,” the Colonel said, standing in the doorway. He was still dressed as he’d been when the last guests had left earlier in the day, in black silk smallclothes and a black coat over a dark gray vest, a serious silhouette against the dining room’s bright French wallpaper. “The house is quiet, isn’t it? We’re rattling around in this place like two lost souls.”
“That’s a cheerful way to consider it, sir,” I said, bending to close the lid on the trunk and clicking the latches shut. “But that’s what comes of having a large house.”
“The house in Albany will be smaller.” Absently he tapped the folded letter in his hand across his palm; he always had a letter in his hands these days. “But it will suffice for the present.”
I straightened, my hands at my waist. “W
hat house in Albany will suffice?”
“For the election,” he said, as if this were perfectly obvious. “Instead of sitting high and mighty on Mount Olympus while others conduct my campaign, I believe more can be achieved by engaging with the people directly.”
“What people, sir?” He’d still two years remaining in his term as a senator. “What campaign?”
“Why, for governor, Mary,” he said, and smiled. “Governor of New York. Clinton is finally stepping down, and the seat is begging for a new leader. The other two running are Chancellor Livingston and Robert Yates. I shouldn’t have much trouble from either of them.”
“You would step down from the Senate if elected, sir?” I asked, incredulous. To be sure, the governorship of New York was a noteworthy position, and given the size and importance of the state, it likely held more water among politicians than did a mere senator’s seat. I also knew the rumors that drifted about Governor Clinton, of how he’d grown rich on the patronage that came with the post, a benefit lacking in the Senate. That, too, would appeal to the Colonel. “You would abandon the Republicans in Congress for Albany?”
“I would,” he said evenly. “You needn’t be distraught over this, Mary. I intend to take you with me.”
“But I have no wish to go to Albany, sir,” I said. “None. Albany . . . Albany was not a welcoming place to me.”
When I’d first lived there with him and Mistress, I hadn’t understood. But now that I’d seen both New York and Philadelphia, I realized why I hadn’t liked Albany. I wanted to be in a city where I saw other free people like me, where my children and I would be at ease and not curiosities, and that was not the case in Albany.
“If I’m elected, I’ll need you there, to do all the things you do so splendidly in Philadelphia,” he said, frowning.
“But it will be Albany, not Philadelphia,” I said. “I’m sorry, sir, but if you become governor and remove to Albany, then I regret that you must find another housekeeper for yourself there.”
He stared at me, clearly shocked. I will admit that I’d shocked myself as well, and if the coming separation from my children weren’t so heavy upon me, I likely wouldn’t have dared speak so honestly. But sometimes the heart will find words that the head cannot, and once I’d spoken, I realized how every word was true.
The Colonel, however, realized nothing except that, for the first time since I had known him, I was refusing to do what he asked. His eyes were filled with disbelief, and he took a step toward me, and another.
“No other woman will suit me as well as you do.”
I’d said “housekeeper,” not “woman.” Didn’t he realize the difference?
“I am sorry, sir,” I said again. “But I am a free woman now.”
“But there’s more between us, Mary, isn’t there?” He moved quickly, taking me by the arm. “You’re no ordinary housekeeper, and you cannot be replaced. You know that as well as I.”
I tried to pull free, but he held my arm fast. He’d always been bigger and stronger than I, and he always would be.
“You do not own me,” I said. “It is my right to leave your employ if it is no longer agreeable to me.”
He curled his other arm around the back of my waist and pushed me backward until I felt the edge of the dining table pressing against the backs of my thighs. He wasn’t rough, and there was gentleness in that arm around my waist, but it still wasn’t my choice. He leaned closer, and though I tried to turn my face away, he followed, and kissed me against my will.
This was the way things had begun between us. I would not let it be the way it ended.
I knew the moment he relaxed, the only advantage I’d have. As quickly as I could, I slipped free of him. He lost his balance for a moment, stumbling forward against the table without me to break his fall, and as he did I darted across the room and into the hall. He called my name, but I didn’t stop. With my skirts bunched high in one hand, I ran down the stairs to the cellar and into the now-empty kitchen, the fires banked for the night. I grabbed the nearest cloak hanging beside the door, threw the bolt, and hurried outside.
The January night air was so sharply cold that it hurt to breathe it. I covered my nose and mouth with the edge of the cloak and ran through the kitchen gardens, past the tall hedges, and into the formal gardens that, in summer, were the Colonel’s pride. Old snow and ice crunched beneath my shoes, and I slipped and scrambled as best I could until, at last, I reached the little six-sided garden folly. I brushed the bench clear of snow and sat, breathing hard.
The folly had arched windows on all six sides, the better to let in breezes in the warmer months. From one side, I could see the river, a silvery stripe dotted with the dark shadows of boats. If I looked to the other side, I saw the white house with its columns, porch, and balustrades, ghostly in the moonlight. Everything was silent, and nothing stirred. I’d wanted to be alone, and I was. Now I huddled in the oversized cloak that must belong to one of the men, and tried to think.
To think. I was shaking. I told myself that I’d finally spoken from the freedom that Mistress had given me last year. I told myself that I’d done what was right for my children, and that they should always come first.
Yet in the middle of all that clear thinking was the Colonel himself, where he always was, and the memory of his expression would not leave me. I’d glimpsed sorrow and suffering and regret in his eyes, all things I’d never wanted to cause him. I must put my children first, but he was their father, while I was—oh, who knew what I was?
I do not know how long I remained there, gazing out across the shining river. Long enough that my fingers and toes grew numb and my cheeks burned from the cold, but still not enough to settle my thoughts.
The sound of the door echoed across the snow-covered fields, and I turned back toward the house. Two figures and a dog walked along the house’s road, one carrying a lantern, their shadows stretched long in the lantern’s light across the snow. I was sure one was the Colonel. I watched them walk back and forth, doubtless searching for my footsteps. I could’ve called to them, but I didn’t.
Finally they came to the back of the house, and at once the dog found my trail. Soon the lantern, held high by Alexis, discovered me in the folly.
“Mary.” The Colonel stood on the steps of the folly, now holding the lantern, as Alexis and the dog trudged back toward the house. “Are you unharmed?”
I nodded, silent.
He stepped inside, but didn’t sit. “I thought you’d run away.”
I doubted he believed that. In the snow, in the cold, at night, without money or belongings, and, most of all, without my children? No.
He sighed, his face lit oddly from beneath by the lantern.
“You were right, Mary,” he said. “I cannot demand that you join me in Albany, and I’m sorry I did. I’m sorry for the rest, too. You’re free, exactly as you said. You may do whatever you please, including wish me heartily to the devil.”
“Don’t make jests like that, sir,” I said.
“I was speaking the truth, albeit with considerable clumsiness.” He set the lantern on the floor, and sat beside me. “Had I shown more care with my words, I would have told you how indispensable you have become to me. Not only by making certain there are sufficient spoons and forks on my table, but as my . . . as my friend. I cannot imagine embarking on the governorship without you, even if it must lead to the benighted city of Albany.”
I let him speak, and I listened. The truth was that despite everything else, I thought of him as my friend, too. Ah, what a twisting of that humble word!
I leaned my head against his shoulder, and tucked my cloak-wrapped hand beneath his arm. “Albany is benighted.”
“I agree,” he said. “But my intention would be to remain there for only a term or two.”
I turned to look him squarely in the eye. “You have further ambitions, don’t you?”
He shrugged. “Most men do.”
“You are not most men, sir.”
&
nbsp; “Be grateful that I am not.” He stood, and held his hand out to me. “Come. It’s far too cold to linger out here, and I know of at least one room in the house that still has a decent fire.”
I took his hand, and let him lead me back to the house, and the fire, too. He deflected what I’d said about his ambition, but I knew him well enough to understand what he hadn’t said.
He’d no great desire to be governor of New York. It would be the means to a greater end, nothing more.
What he wished instead was to be president.
* * *
As it turned out, neither the Colonel nor I went to Albany. The Colonel had told me he’d two rivals for the governor’s seat—New York State Supreme Court Justice Robert Yates and Chancellor Robert Livingston—and that neither of them, although worthy gentlemen, would offer much competition to him in the election. This wasn’t merely his vanity, but truth.
But as soon as Colonel Hamilton and his father-in-law, General Schuyler, learned that the odious Colonel Burr was likely to become the next governor, they and their supporters quickly declared former Chief Justice John Jay as their candidate. It didn’t matter that Justice Jay did not place a single step within the state of New York during the entire election process (having been sent to London to negotiate the new treaty with Britain), or that the Colonel campaigned relentlessly. The Schuyler-Hamilton Federalists used their considerable power to see that Justice Jay was elected, with his inauguration postponed until his return from abroad in July 1795.
The Colonel had seen this coming, and withdrew from the race in March. He was philosophical about this, and not as disappointed as I’d expected him to be. But then, I’d learned that he saw such matters on a much grander scale than most gentlemen, and that his thwarted run had many larger benefits toward the future. He was the first and only candidate to go among the people, to shake hands and listen and collect his votes one by one. Electioneering, it was called, and while he was faulted for it as being a vulgar opportunist, the men he’d met this way appreciated it, and liked him. His popularity continued to grow within the democratic societies, those increasingly popular groups denounced by Federalists as “demonic societies.” He was mentioned more and more in the newspapers, not only in Philadelphia and New York, but in other cities as well, praised for his independence in politics.
The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr Page 49
