If his eyes ever once dropped to Betty’s chest, Eliza never saw it, although she did occasionally catch him glancing about the room. Or, no, not around it, per se: just at one particular spot. Amidst the bustling bodies, Eliza followed his gaze to the opposite corner, where John and Emma were sharing their own glasses of wine.
Here John was the seducer and Emma the stoic, though the smile on her face seemed genuinely amused at whatever (no doubt bawdy) anecdote John was relating.
It was sweet that Drayton was so concerned for Emma. Such the gentleman, always, but he needn’t have worried. John seemed to be taking to his role as beau with enthusiasm. And why not? He and Emma lived in the same house, after all, saw each other every day, knew not just the social self but the more private, authentic individual. She knew he was more than the hard-partying college freshman, and he knew she had other sides to her besides the always-grateful ingénue who never wanted to offend lest she lose her place. She calmed him, he excited her: Together Eliza saw them as a more well-rounded, more interesting pair of individuals. A good match, and one she was right to have encouraged, Eliza thought with satisfaction.
The jury was still out on Drayton and Betty—who knew where tonight would lead them—but the more she saw Emma and John together, the more Eliza was convinced her instincts were correct.
“Matchmaker indeed,” she said under her breath.
“Begging your pardon, Eliza?”
She looked up to see her friend James Beekman smiling at her. He held a decanter in his hand glistening with drops of moisture. It had obviously just been pulled from a bucket of ice.
“Oh, excuse me, James. I was just musing out loud.”
“I shan’t ask what thoughts could provoke such an interesting exclamation,” he said tactfully. “I only came over to see if I could refresh your drink. My sister has, as usual, managed to fill the room with guests, and it is rather stuffy in here.”
Eliza smiled gratefully and patted the seat beside her—well, as close as she could reach over her wide hoops. “Please, join me. I am afraid I am not as light on my feet as I was four or five months ago. Amuse me.”
James sat down, refilling her glass fast with chilled perry—unfermented, as Eliza had requested—then topping off his own with the alcoholic version. “To be honest, I think it is you who have provided all the fun for the evening.”
“And how is that?”
“Your two mystery guests,” James replied, indicating Emma and Drayton. “They are charming everyone—when they can escape the orbit of Mr. Schuyler and Miss Van Rensselaer, at any rate.”
It took Eliza a moment to recall that James wasn’t in on Betty and Jane’s little scheme, and she decided to play along rather than risk the story leaking out.
“Ah, yes. Mr. Penning—Pendleton, I mean, and Miss Trask. They are but recent acquaintances, although both have become quite dear to me.”
“Betty has been telling the most outrageous stories about Mr. Pendleton. She says the family’s Ohio holdings are as big as Belgium.”
Eliza laughed. “You know how Betty likes to exaggerate. I don’t think the whole territory of Ohio is as big as all that,” though the truth was she was rather fuzzy about the size of the Ohio Territory, or Belgium for that matter. “But he is certainly a man of . . . singular wealth.”
“Indeed. And so well-spoken. Jane said she could listen to him talk all evening.”
“Has Jane taken a bit of a fancy, then?” Eliza asked as lightly as she could, though her heart was suddenly racing. Nothing would make Betty want someone more than a little competition. And Jane Beekman could hardly be considered a bad catch herself.
“Who knows?” James laughed. “My sister falls in love almost as often as I do, and her infatuations pass almost as fast.”
“Have you fallen in love with someone then?” Eliza asked, even as James’s eyes flicked in Emma’s direction.
When James looked back at Eliza, he saw that he had been found out. He grinned sheepishly. “Oh, I think I am rather out of my depth tonight. And to tell you the truth I enjoy being a bachelor and would not sully Miss Trask by playing Lothario.”
Eliza had heard that James liked to toy with ladies’ affections, if not their honor, and appreciated this discretion on his part. “She is indeed remarkably pure. Her life has not been blessed by great fortune or the most stable of family situations, and yet all the strife she has endured seems only to have made her stronger and more benevolent.”
James turned to admire the lithe form of Eliza’s houseguest once again. “Be careful, Eliza, lest you awaken a passion in me I cannot control.”
“Oh, James!” Eliza said, patting his knee lightly. “You are such a lad! But in all seriousness,” she added, “if you trifle with Miss Trask I shall have to hurt you.”
The two shared a laugh, though James’s was a little strained. Eliza’s tone was light, but it was clear her warning was quite the opposite.
“As I said, I think I am out of my league anyway. As is, dare I say, your brother.”
Eliza looked over at the love-struck pair. John was leaning in, attempting to make eye contact with Emma, who was looking coyly away.
“Yes, they do make—” Eliza broke off. “Wait, what? John is out of his league?”
“How long have Miss Trask and Mr. Pendleton been wooing each other?” James asked in an innocent voice. “They seem quite well suited—both so steady and well-mannered. They could teach us all a thing a two.”
“Who?” Eliza asked. “You mean Emma and . . . Drayton?” Yet even as the words left her mouth, she had the nagging sensation that she had been missing something that had been right in front of her eyes all this time. Had she been so caught up in her own plans—for a family, for the orphanage, for Emma and John and Drayton and Betty—that she could have missed an entirely different romance taking shape in her own house?
No, she told herself. It’s not possible. Yet even in her mind, she heard the whinge of protest.
James sat back slightly. “You didn’t realize?”
Eliza tried to laugh off her obvious surprise as her mind spun. “I fear you are mistaken, James. Emma and my brother are quite in love, and Drayton would never presume—” She broke off at James’s confused look. “That is, it seems clear that Drayton has his sights set on uniting the Pendleton fortune with the Van Rensselaer name.” But even as she spoke she was following Emma’s averted gaze, and realized that she wasn’t avoiding John’s eyes as much as she was seeking out Drayton’s.
James chuckled. “My mother told me never to contradict a lady. Nevertheless, I have to disagree here. I have rather a little experience in these matters, and if Miss Trask and Mr. Pennington or Pendleton or whatever his name is aren’t in love, I’ll eat my hat.”
“An easy promise,” Eliza said. “You’re not wearing a hat.”
“I have twenty,” James said. “I’ll let you pick. Some of them are quite large, and the fur trim is particularly chewy.”
Eliza looked between Emma and Drayton. Though each seemed to be paying attention to their respective partner, they each glanced the other’s way every few moments, and once, when they managed to look at the same time, they exchanged shy smiles. And now that she thought of it, their eyes seemed always to be straying to each other—at parties, at table. Even when they were in the carriage earlier, when Drayton would turn around to rib Rowena, it was Emma’s eye he would catch. Emma he would wink at. Could James really be right?
“But—but this cannot be. It is not an advantageous match for either of them.” The minute Eliza said it, she regretted it. Was she as terrible a snob as Betty Van Rensselaer? She was taken aback by the notion. After all, why couldn’t Emma and Drayton be together?
James shrugged. “One is poor, the other is rich and owns all of Ohio, and both are comely. It would seem to be the most advantageous of all unions.”
Eliza stood up abruptly. “I beg your pardon, but I am suddenly feeling rather tired.” She patted her stomach. “Could I trouble you to send Emma up to my room to help me from my dress?”
“My sister has set aside a maid—”
“In my condition,” Eliza cut him off, patting her stomach rather more pronouncedly, “I prefer the assistance of a familiar pair of hands. Thank you for understanding,” she added, then turned and exited the room.
20
Jewel in the Darkness
Ruston’s Ale House and Inn
New York, New York
August 1785
The barman came over to ask if Alex would like a pint of ale and a bowl of stew, both of which he accepted like a drowning sailor grabbing for a life rope.
“I, er, have to go fetch it,” the barman said when Alex reached a hand out for a dish the barman wasn’t carrying. Alex put his hand down sheepishly. “Very good, my good man!” he said with forced brightness. He winced inwardly at his own words. Had he stumbled into an Elizabethan drama without realizing it?
“It is so pleasant to see you, Mr. Hamilton!” Maria said after the barman had departed. “I was beginning to think you had forgotten about me!” Maria’s voice was too loud, too bright as well, too desperate in the nearly deserted inn, and Alex realized he wasn’t the only nervous one.
“I do apologize for the long absence, Mrs. Reynolds. Work has been exceptionally demanding lately.” In comparison to his client, Alex’s voice had gone too quiet, too flat, too dishonest.
“I’m sure,” Maria said. “I understand that you have to prioritize your paying clients.” Alex thought he heard a note of disappointment in her voice, not so much in him as in life. It was as if she had been dismissed in the same manner many times before.
“It’s not that . . .” Alex’s voice trailed off as the barmen returned with Alex’s order. He and Maria stared at each other in silence as the heavy crock and stein were set down on the wooden table.
“Anything else, sir?”
“If Mrs. Smith would like anything . . . ?” Maria shook her head. “That will be all then. I have a tab,” he added. “Alexander—”
“Hamilton, yes sir.” The barman nodded. “You’re well-known in Ruston’s, and in this city, dare I say?”
Alex flustered and automatically put his hand out. “Pleased to meet you, Mr., ah—”
“Thomas, sir,” the barman said, shaking his hand. Alex wasn’t sure if it was the man’s first or last name, and didn’t ask.
“Is that it?” Maria said after the barman had gone. Alex turned to her in confusion. “You’re afraid to be seen with me? You think someone might recognize you? Or, even worse, might recognize me?”
Alex’s hand clutched at his glass. “Why would you say that, Mrs. Reynolds?”
Maria rolled her eyes at this weak attempt at a dodge. “It has been two weeks since I heard from you, Mr. Hamilton. I—” She gulped, and her cheeks flushed with color. “I have been abandoned before. I know what it looks like.”
Alex sat up with a start. It stung to be accused of such callow behavior, even if he knew that was exactly what he had done. A vague thought troubled the back of his mind. This behavior reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t think of who. And then in a moment of clarity, it hit him: his father, who had left his mother to her fate all those years ago.
“I have not abandoned you!” he almost shouted. “Why, I’m here now!”
Maria’s smile was a frightening thing, full of a worldly knowledge Alex did not like to associate with such a young woman. He had seen a smile like that before, though he could barely remember it. But he could picture it on his mother’s face when his father disappeared, and when the next man came into her life, and the next, and the one after that. She had worn it on her deathbed, too, a knowing smile that told Providence to do its worst, because she had already seen it all.
“Can you look me in the eye,” Maria said with that cunning smile on her face, “and tell me that it was me you came to see tonight?”
Alex was able to look her in the eye, but he wasn’t able to speak those words. It was all he could do to blink the visage of his mother away.
“Eat your stew,” Maria said after a moment, sounding just like his mother. There was no triumph in her voice, only defeat. “It’s getting cold.”
Alex tucked in. He had been ravenous when he arrived, but now the savory beef concoction tasted like mud. Still, it was better than speaking.
But Maria wasn’t about to let him off that easily. “What did he tell you?”
At first, Alex thought she somehow knew about Miguel, but then he realized she meant her husband. Her sort-of husband. Her—what was Miguel’s word?—agent. “I assure you I have not spoken with Mr. Reynolds.”
“No doubt,” Maria agreed. “A gentleman of your class has middlemen he employs for such unsavory communications. You would not like to sully yourself by coming too close to my world.”
“I think you judge me harshly, Mrs. Reynolds.”
“Do I? Or do I judge you just harshly enough?”
Once again, Alex could not muster a reply.
“You see I have learned a thing or two about men in my life. Even men of your station, so above my own.”
“Mrs. Reynolds, please. I beg of you. Do not speak of yourself so.”
Maria sighed. “Why did you come here tonight, Mr. Hamilton?”
Alex hung for a moment, then shrugged. “My wife is away, and she took our cook with her. I worked late and needed some dinner.”
“So you came here, as opposed to the Fraunces Tavern, which is just around the corner?”
“I have never been fond of the Fraunces. And, as you know, I have a long-standing relationship with Mrs. Childress.”
“New York is a big city. I’m sure there are other taverns still open at this hour. Yet you chose to come to the one where you have a client. A client whose letters and person you have ignored for quite a while.”
Of course, he had to ignore her. Miguel had warned him away from her. Moreover, she had been the cause of an argument between him and his wife, when he and Eliza had never argued like that before. And the moment Eliza was gone here he was, by her side. Why couldn’t he keep away? Why didn’t he have another clerk in his office take care of this business? Why didn’t he just send Nippers?
Alex chewed mechanically on the stew in his mouth, swallowed without tasting it. “A moment ago you suggested that I did not come here to see you. Now it seems you are saying I did.”
“A man can desire a thing and yet not realize he desires it. There are parts of ourselves that only God knows, and that remain a mystery to even the most self-aware of souls.”
Something funny happened in Alex as Maria said these words. On the one hand, he admired her perspicacity. To have acquired such wisdom at so young an age, and without the advantage of an education, spoke to a first-rate mind. Yet on the other hand, he was aware of how she had likely acquired it. The unnatural experiences she had had, and that had forced knowledge on her like Satan had forced the apple upon Eve. Alex had always taken the Eden story as a kind of parable, not literally true. Knowledge had always been his god. Yet now he felt that there were some things better unknown. The thought that a woman as obviously sensitive as Maria knew these things repelled him. Yet it held an undeniable attraction as well.
She knew the world as it was, like he did, the cruelty and the coarseness, she knew abandonment and deceit and hunger and survival, just as he did. They were alike in a way that Eliza would never understand.
“It is true that I have been out of touch these past two weeks,” he admitted now. “It is also true that I hired a man to investigate your—your husband,” he said deliberately. “It cannot come as a surprise to you that the investigation unearthed unsavory things not just about him but about you.”
Maria regarded him with a level, eerily calm demeanor. “You may speak frankly, Mr. Hamilton.”
“I think I am speaking as frankly as I am able,” Alex said. “Your husband says that he sent you to entrap me, for the purposes of blackmail.”
Maria sat back in horror—but not, it seemed, at the accusation. “Does he know where I am then?”
Alex restrained himself from taking her hand to comfort her. “It does not seem so.”
Maria seemed doubtful. “Then how does he know I am with you?”
“He did not mention me by name. He only told my man that he had sent you out to ‘do a job.’ My man thought he was fishing, and I do, too.”
“Fishing?”
“He was trying to find out where you were. Naturally my man told him nothing.”
Maria considered this for a moment. “So, you do not believe him?”
“I do not,” Alex said. “Yet I cannot deny that you actively concealed the truth from me either. Such behavior doesn’t inspire trust.”
“No,” Maria said bitterly. “I would imagine it does not. Yet what would you have done if you knew the truth about me?”
Alex shrugged helplessly. “I am not sure that I do know the truth about you. I know a few facts. But a life is more than its plot points as it were, no matter how shocking.”
Maria sighed wearily. “Are they shocking?” she said in a voice whose nonchalance made her words that much more bitter. “To me, they seemed . . . commonplace. Inevitable even.”
“Our maker gave each of us the right to choose, Mrs. Reynolds.”
Maria laughed. “Did the slave choose his fate then? No, Mr. Hamilton, our maker gave people the right to suffer, but only some of us actually get to choose the causes of our suffering. And we women have rather less opportunity than men to steer our fate.“
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