“I want to understand you, Mrs. Reynolds. I really do. Yet how does a woman like you, who so obviously knows better, end up with a man like Mr. Reynolds?”
Another laugh, even more jaded than the previous one, but it tugged at his heart. Maria looked so delicate, so helpless, in the dim light of the tavern. She was a blossom that needed sun, not darkness. A jewel without tarnish, no matter what she had borne. It pained him to see her so low.
Alas, he was no longer thinking of his dearest Eliza, only of his mother, who had also been similarly discarded, and who deserved so much more.
“How could I not? I had no home, Mr. Hamilton. I had no kin, no income, no means of getting employment. I tried to find a place at inns like this, yet they always cast me out because my clothes were too dirty or my accent too coarse; and when I did find employment, there was always some man there to demand more from me than a stein of ale or bowl of stew, or a wife to chase me out before her husband could overstep his bounds. If it wasn’t the owner, it was a patron. If it wasn’t a patron, it was a deliveryman. If it wasn’t a deliveryman, it was just a man on the street. There is only so long one can hold out when one has no place to sleep but the boardwalk and nothing to eat but the scraps she finds there.”
Alex’s mind flashed back, not to Nevis but to St. Croix, where his mother had taken them after his father left. The dark, sooty, sweltering rooms, the threadbare clothes, the endless bowls of watery rice unrelieved by pork or mutton or even poultry. “I never had a chance,” his mother had said to him just a few weeks before the fever carried her away. “But you will, because you are a man.” He had been eleven at the time and had not understood the full import of his mother’s words, and now he realized he never fully grasped their significance. Not until this woman sat across from him and showed exactly how unjust men could be to women, even as they professed to adore and protect them.
He didn’t stop himself this time. He put his hand out and took Maria’s. “Please, Mrs. Reynolds, I beg of you. Accept my apology. I allowed myself to be blinded by innuendo and forgot the honorable woman who entrusted me with her care. I won’t let you down again.”
Maria looked wearily down at his hand, then pulled hers away. “I know you believe what you say. But I also know how the world works. Nevertheless,” she continued before Alex could protest, “I have no choice but to trust you.” She stood up. “You should head home, Mr. Hamilton. It’s late.” She nodded at the bartender, who was staring at them openly. “People will talk.”
21
Castles in the Air
En Route to Van Cortlandt Manor
The Bronx, New York
August–September 1785
Eliza was terribly wounded by what she felt was Emma’s deception. All along she had believed the girl to be enamored of her brother when all along she had feelings for Drayton. Hence Eliza had pretended to be ill when she went to bed last night so she could keep Emma from returning to the party, but also force her to sleep in a spare bed rather than share with her, as they might normally have done. A pair of footmen carried a narrow bedframe into the room and spread a mean-looking feather mattress across it. Eliza peevishly directed them to move it closer to the fire so “her Miss Trask” wouldn’t freeze to death.
As it happened, it rained during the night and it was Eliza who turned out to be cold beneath her single blanket, but she curled herself into a ball and stoically (or rather, stubbornly) refused to ask Emma to join her for a little extra body heat, even though she could hear her friend tossing and turning on her narrow, thin bed, and knew they would both be more comfortable if they slept together as they had done during the entire trip.
In the morning, after a fitful night’s sleep, Eliza was genuinely feeling under the weather—although it might have just been the weather. Thick fog gave way seamlessly to heavy clouds hanging low in the sky, so that the air was a solid sheet of suspended water, and the mercury had dropped almost thirty degrees. It seemed clear a heavy rain was coming, yet Eliza still insisted that they make the trip up to Van Cortlandt House that morning.
“We have work to do,” she told Jane, who counseled waiting until the weather had cleared. “It is only six miles, and the carriage has a hood. We shall be fine.”
“Your footman is certainly a robust lad,” Jane said, shrugging her shoulders. “I suppose he’ll be fine, too.”
It stung Eliza when a sweet but, if one was honest, somewhat pampered girl like Jane Beekman cared more about her servant’s well-being than she did, but she was still so miffed by James’s revelations (rather obvious, in hindsight, but still shocking) that she continued to insist on the journey. She was irritated that she had not seen Drayton and Emma’s budding romance, and felt keenly betrayed by it. With her brilliant plans, she had been trying to improve their stations, and how did they pay her back? By falling for each other?
Infuriated by the thought, she retreated to the library, where she pretended to read a volume of Fielding, in order to avoid Emma, who was charged with packing up their things, and Drayton, who loaded them onto the carriage.
By ten o’clock they were ready to depart. A subdued Emma climbed glumly into the rear-facing seat, while a confused Drayton, swathed in an oilskin rain hat generously provided by one of the Beekmans’ footmen, waited in the driver’s seat. One of the horses looked back at him with an expression of “Really? In this weather?” then pointedly lifted its tail.
Jane came around to give Eliza a little farewell kiss. “You are a bit warm, Eliza. Are you sure you’re fit to travel? Why don’t you at least wait until John and Betty have awakened so you can give them a proper good-bye.”
“‘John and Betty,’” Eliza parroted. “You make it sound like they are a couple.”
Eliza expected Jane to look shocked—she wanted to shock people as much as she had been shocked last night—but all her friend did was wink.
“Well, actually—” she began. “I do believe your brother is quite taken with her. And she with him.”
“Johnny and Birdy?” Eliza said, aghast. She thought of the insults they traded—“inbred stripling” Betty called him, while he thought her a horrid snob—or did he? And did she? Now that the blinders were off, Eliza could see quite clearly. Did she and Alex not trade barbs during their courtship? Did she not think him arrogant and cocky and do her best to pretend she did not swoon at the sight of him?
Oh dear Lord, she had gotten it all wrong. And if she could not see what was clearly in front of her, what else in her life had she missed?
She missed Alex terribly, though she’d been gone only one day. Why had she insisted on this trip—especially in her condition? She had been stubborn and single-minded and bossy, and she was hurt by his words and wanted to punish him a little. Let him miss her, as she had missed him.
Jane recoiled at Eliza’s tone. “Eliza? Are you quite well?”
“I am fine,” Eliza said, though she was mortified at her behavior, and all she really wanted to do was climb back into bed. “Duty calls!” she added as gaily as she could, and without waiting for a footman’s assistance hauled herself into the carriage. Once the door was closed, she banged on the wall behind Drayton’s seat like an overzealous valet, and a moment later they were on their way.
Eliza had insisted that Emma don one of her finer dresses for the journey—“Can’t show up at the Van Cortlandts looking like a pair of country lasses, can we?”—and she herself had worn a bustled skirt, requiring her to sit bolt upright on the carriage seat to avoid crushing her ribs, which were already tightly squeezed by the bodice of her dress, which had been tailored last year, when her stomach was substantially smaller than it was now. There were several minutes of rearranging as the women shifted around yards and yards of canopied silk in an attempt to get comfortable, and more than once one of the women stepped on the other’s toes. At last they came to rest, their dresses intermingling like a flood of spilled s
trawberry jam (Eliza) colliding with a tipped-over pot of honey (Emma).
“Are you quite comfortable, Mrs. Hamilton?”
“Emma, please,” Eliza said in a castigating tone. “We are friends. Call me Eliza.” It sounded like an order rather than an entreaty.
“Of course, Eliza,” Emma said in the voice of a child who has been punished for a transgression she is unaware of.
They rode on in silence for a few moments. Then Eliza, remembering herself, said: “And are you comfortable, Emma?”
“I’m quite comfortable,” Emma answered. Then, after a pause: “Thank you for asking.”
Eliza wasn’t sure if she heard the slightest bit of sauce in Emma’s voice. No doubt she was imagining it. Her friend was far too meek for cheek.
Too meek for cheek! she thought, and grinned crookedly. Ha!
Emma looked at her in confusion. Just then there was a crack of thunder. Emma started and peered out the window nervously. “It looks like it’s really going to come down soon.”
“Nonsense,” Eliza said. “You have spent too long in the city and have forgotten how to read the sky. It’s just a heavy fog. It will burn off within the hour.”
Emma squinted at Eliza’s transparent lie. Finally, she just shrugged and said, “I do hope you’re right. It is five hours to Van Cortlandt House. That is an awfully long time to be out in the rain.”
“We are not out in the rain,” Eliza said peevishly, tapping the flimsy roof of the carriage. “And it is hardly five hours to Van Cortlandt House. Four at the most.”
Emma looked at Eliza in consternation. “I was not referring to us. I was thinking of Drayton.”
Eliza literally felt her eyes roll. “Of course you were.”
“Mrs. Ham—Eliza?” Emma said anxiously. “Have I done something to offend you?”
“What?” Eliza said in faux innocence. “Of course not. You are by far the sweetest, most docile, and obedient girl I have ever met in my entire life.”
Emma bore this acidic outburst as stoically as she could, but a warm flush had crept up her cheeks, and her eyes looked as watery as the sky.
“Only I would hate for you to think I was not extraordinarily grateful for everything you and Mr. Hamilton have done for me.”
“Call. Him. Alex,” Eliza said almost vehemently. “We are your friends—your benefactors maybe—not your employers.”
Emma shrank into her seat.
“I’m sorry, Eliza. I really do appreciate everything you have done for me.”
“Yes, you already said that; you needn’t harp on about it. You would think Alex and I invited you into our home just so we would have someone around to praise us for our good deeds all the time.”
Emma opened her mouth, then closed it. Her lower lip trembled slightly, but Eliza refused to relent. “Only why,” she said suddenly, “why do you refuse my brother’s affections and instead dote on someone who can offer you none of the advantages John can?”
Emma tried to pretend she didn’t know what Eliza was talking about, but her eyes flashed heavenward, to where Drayton sat just above her.
“Mr. Schuyler—”
“John.”
“Your brother doesn’t care for me. He flirts with me because he flirts with all the girls.”
“Yes, he flirts with all the girls. He woos you.”
Emma surprised her then. She laughed. “I should hate to tell you about your own brother, Eliza, but your brother would no more marry a poor girl than—than Miss Van Rensselaer would marry a poor boy!”
“Emma! I do not like to hear you speak of my brother and my friend in such a manner!”
“Friends don’t tell friends how to speak, Eliza,” Emma said tartly. “Or am I in fact your lady’s maid, Mrs. Hamilton?”
“Drayton is not a good match for you! Why isn’t that as obvious to you as it is to everyone else? The two of you will be penniless and—and servants!”
“There is no shame in being a servant, Mrs. Hamilton. It is honest work, and we cannot all be so fortunate as to have inherited money. And at least if I were a maid or governess or schoolmarm I should know my place and not always feel like I am overstepping my bounds when I call people by their Christian names, or sit at table with them and feel like I am eavesdropping on someone else’s conversation. You like to pretend that America is a classless society, and while that may be true in Mr. Hamilton’s speeches and essays, in real life the world is still very much divided by how much money one has, and for how long. There are still rich and poor, and the former still have very strong ideas about the latter’s place.”
“Emma Trask! Are you calling me a snob? I am the opposite of a snob!” Eliza cried, truly hurt.
“Indeed you are not a snob, Mrs. Hamilton. But a snob like Betty Van Rensselaer is easier to deal with. And at least she is honest about her place in the world and has a sense of humor about it as well.”
Eliza was shocked into silence. Emma’s chest was heaving, as if she were just as surprised by her words as Eliza was, but she didn’t stop speaking.
“Money is money, Mrs. Hamilton, regardless of education. It might surprise you to learn that not every poor person makes mud pies for amusement or relishes opossum stew or thinks baths are an idiosyncrasy of the rich. We may work longer hours than you, and at less scintillating tasks, but we still find time to edify ourselves as well. As near as I can tell Drayton has read more books than you have, but he is still a footman.”
“You just love to insult my reading habits, don’t you?”
Emma scoffed. “There is no habit to insult.”
Eliza gasped. “You forget your place, Emma.”
“No, Mrs. Hamilton, I remember my place every day. It is you who forget my place. I live on the largesse of a couple I barely know, and though I go to sleep grateful each night to be installed in a comfortable bed above stairs, I wake up each morning wondering if today my mistress will suddenly remember who I am and banish me to a cot off the kitchen. Like she did last night.”
Eliza didn’t bother pointing out that Emma hadn’t slept in the kitchen last night, but she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “That was not a cot. It was the same size bed I slept on once upon a time.”
“Until you were how old? Eight? Ten?”
“Twelve!”
Emma mumbled something under her breath. A flush spread across her face, but so did a self-satisfied grin.
“What was that?” Eliza demanded.
“Nothing, Mrs. Hamilton. I only said that you are a bit of an undersized thing, so it probably fit you.”
“Why, I am bigger than you!”
“You are now,” Emma said, her eyes flitting to Eliza’s stomach.
Eliza stiffened. “I appreciate that our tempers are hot, but mind how you speak to me. There are limits to even my tolerance.”
“You see? I am your friend when it suits you and your servant when it doesn’t. It is a choice only a rich person can make.”
“Well, if you married John you would be rich, and you could be as capricious as me.”
“If I married John, I would be miserable as it is quite clear he is in love with someone else.”
“What?”
“It is only you who are blind to it, as well as John and Betty themselves. They don’t seem to realize they are quite taken with each other and resort to taunting each other instead,” said Emma. “Besides, even if I married John, I would spend all my time thinking about Drayton, because I love him!”
Eliza gasped, even though she had heard it last night already. “You do?”
Emma’s eyes had been flashing with anger, but now they fell to her lap. In a moment she was her usual self again, save for the flush that clung to her pale cheeks. “I do,” she said in a quiet but determined voice.
“And does he love you?” Eliza asked in a defeated voic
e.
“He does,” Emma answered, beaming.
Eliza processed this in silence for a moment. At length she reached out and took Emma’s hand. “I only wanted to help you, Emma.”
Emma squeezed Eliza’s hand for a minute before pulling hers free, clearly not ready to forgive and forget just yet. “I know you did, Mrs. Hamilton. But Cupid is remarkably independent. Almost as independent as you,” she added in a questioning voice, as if unsure if she could make a joke so soon.
Eliza barely heard her. She was seeing an entire summer’s schemes go up in smoke. How could she have been so blind? Not about Emma and Drayton, but about herself?
Was she a terrible snob? The worst kind, as she was ignorant of the fact? Yes, yes, she was. She had to do better, she thought, as she punched the side of the carriage. She had been upset to think about Emma and Drayton as it appeared they were throwing their futures away, when rich marriages could be made if they only let Eliza pick them. She had only wanted the best for Emma and Drayton, as she would for her own child. She laughed inwardly. How she had turned into her mother! This was Catherine Schuyler speaking, wasn’t it? Still, it was hard to see her castles crumble.
* * *
• • •
THE NEXT EIGHT hours were pure torture. Though Eliza and Emma didn’t fight anymore, they sat in mutual silence that was more painful than their sparring words. Eliza couldn’t tell if Emma was no longer angry at her, or simply too tired to continue dueling. For her part, she was torn between continued indignation that Emma had spurned her help—not to mention her brother!—and mortification at her behavior. She was hard-pressed to recall a time in her life when she had ever spoken as harshly to someone as she’d just spoken to Emma, and though she didn’t want to admit it, she knew that one of the reasons she’d acted so vehemently was because she could. She was the rich one. She was the mistress. Emma was dependent on Eliza, for shelter, for food, for an eventual job as a governess or lady’s maid, and was essentially helpless to respond in kind. The fact that she had lost her temper was testament to just how far over the line Eliza had stepped.
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