Yet Eliza couldn’t bring herself to apologize just yet. It was hard to let go of such a well-planned scheme. She’d had her heart set on it. Emma could make John happy, and John could make Emma comfortable, and in time they could come to love each other. Maybe not the kind of love that she and Alex shared, but how many marriages were blessed with that kind of passion? And how many of those passions persisted over time? Every year growing up there would be a story of some love-struck swain or smitten maiden who ran off in the dark of the night, only to wake up a month or a year later beside someone who could not give them what they wanted. That would be Emma and Drayton. If they did marry, it would be a stroke of fortune if they even managed to live in the same house. More than likely Drayton would serve in one place and Emma in another, and their marriage would be like a sailor’s, with brief unions snatched between interminable periods of waiting. And it wasn’t just their own poverty they were guaranteeing. As servants, they would never be able to educate their children so that they could raise themselves up. It would be generation after generation of straitened circumstances. Why couldn’t they see that?
But love is blind, and Eliza knew that truth better than anyone. Hadn’t her own mother told her Alex was unsuitable? And hadn’t Eliza ignored her and pursued him anyway? And hadn’t it all worked out? Every couple was entitled to a fight now and then, and it would be alarmist to make more of it than it really was. On some level Eliza knew she was describing the situation as she wanted it rather than as she knew it to be, but when all was said and done she had faith in Alex and their love. That was enough, wasn’t it?
While all these thoughts were darting around Eliza’s head it started to rain in earnest. The wind picked up as well, and the flimsy lid of the carriage rattled on its hinges and let in mist-laced drafts that sprayed both ladies. To make matters worse, a steady drip soon started from a frayed seam more or less directly over Eliza’s seat, and such was the width of the bustle she had insisted on wearing that she could not slide out of its way.
For the first time in half an hour, Emma spoke.
“Oh, Mrs. Hamilton, you should switch with me. You’ll catch your death of cold, and in your condition it’s not worth the risk.”
The anger was fully gone from her voice, and in its place was the kindness and concern of which Eliza had grown so fond in the past few months. But Eliza’s guilt at her own bad behavior was still too raw to allow her to accept Emma’s generous offer.
“I am quite all right, thank you, Emma,” Eliza said briskly. “It is just a few drops of water.”
“But it is soaking through your dress!”
“Nonsense. It is just a damp spot,” Eliza lied, piling as many layers of soon-to-be-ruined silk atop her thighs in an effort to shield herself from the freezing water. “It shall blow over in a moment, and then we’ll lower the top and the sun will dry my dress in no time at all.”
The mound of fabric kept her dry for a few more minutes, but such was the steadiness of the drip that soon it had soaked all the way through to Eliza’s petticoat and pantaloons, chilling her legs as though she had stepped into an icy mountain stream, but still she refused to change places with Emma.
“It is almost done raining,” she said every time Emma protested. “I can see clear skies on the horizon.”
The storm did indeed blow over, but not till nearly two hours later. By then the damage was done. Eliza was soaked through and shivering, and, what’s worse, the roads had been rendered a sodden mess. What should have been a five-hour journey took nearly eight.
Eliza was in a daze by the time the carriage slowed in front of the Van Cortlandts’ stern gray stone manor house, which was little more than a dark shadow against the glowering sky. It took both Drayton and one of the Van Cortlandts’ footmen to get her out of the carriage. Her last clear thought was saying, “I can stand on my own,” before she fainted into Drayton’s arms.
* * *
• • •
WHEN NEXT SHE opened her eyes, cold but bright bars of sunlight were angling into a strange bedroom. A roaring fire burned in a grate, and a thick, fluffy quilt swaddled Eliza up to her neck. She felt delightfully warm.
“Mrs. Hamilton? Are you awake?”
She turned and saw a blond girl in a prim gray dress staring at her with a concerned expression. Her otherwise smooth skin was creased with worry lines around her mouth, and there were dark circles under her eyes, as if she had not slept all night. Eliza had no idea who she might be.
“Do I know you?” she asked. She attempted to sit up but found she didn’t have the strength for it.
The girl bit her lip, then took a moment to calm herself. “It’s Emma, Mrs. Hamilton. Emma Trask.”
For one more brief terrifying moment, Eliza stared at the girl dumbly, and then suddenly it all came back to her: the errand to the Van Cortlandts, the carriage ride, the fight. Her hands rushed to her stomach, to feel the mound of growing life there. It felt strangely . . . bigger. And then, even more strangely, it moved. With a tremendous start, equal parts terror and love, Eliza realized her baby was kicking.
“How—how long have I been asleep?”
Emma smiled at her gently and took her hand. “It has been three weeks you’ve tossed and turned with a fever, Mrs. Hamilton. We were afraid we were going to lose you.”
“But . . . but it was just a chill,” Eliza said, thinking Emma must be teasing her. And yet, the weakness in her body attested to the truth of Emma’s words. Her limbs felt like putty, as if they had not moved in—well, in three weeks.
“Alex,” she said at last. “Is he here?”
“Mrs. Van Cortlandt only wrote to tell him that you were ill. He is so overwhelmed with work that it seemed needless to send for him, as there is nothing he could do.”
This seemed peculiar to Eliza to say the least—she was pregnant, after all, and tossing in delirium in a fever! And she wanted her husband by her side, badly. But before she could inquire further there was a knock at the door, and Drayton entered bearing a tray containing a teapot and some biscuits.
“Oh, Drayton!” Emma exclaimed, jumping up from her chair and rushing to the door. “She is awake! She is awake!” she said, grabbing Drayton’s arm so excitedly that she almost upset his tray.
“Easy, my love, easy,” Drayton said, giving Emma a little kiss on the forehead. “You will spill Mrs. Hamilton’s tea, and then she may sleep for another three weeks.”
He set the tray down, then turned to the bed. “Good morning, Mrs. Hamilton. It is good to have you back with us.”
He seemed suddenly to realize that Emma’s arm was still looped through his, and he grinned sheepishly and put his hand over hers.
Eliza laughed weakly at the folly of her plans. “You make a beautiful couple,” she said. Her former plans were a distant memory, and melted like shaved ice in the summertime. She told herself that she and Alex would help settle the young couple so that they could rise above their station, and they would see that America was not England, and not stratified in the same manner. Their happiness made her melancholy, however, as she realized how dearly she missed her own husband.
22
Temptation and Tragedy
Ruston’s Ale House and Inn
New York, New York
September 1785
He had gone there to comfort another. Not to seek comfort for himself.
He had gone there to celebrate his greatest accomplishment since Yorktown. Instead he had been handed his greatest defeat.
He defeated himself.
* * *
• • •
IT WAS A bitter pill to swallow, especially as the day started in triumph. Three weeks after Eliza’s departure, Alex had arranged a private meeting with a magistrate and Reverend Provoost to review the church’s charter as a preamble to an official hearing at a later date. He walked into Judge Tankert’s c
hambers in City Hall brimming with confidence. After a brief greeting, he spread his papers out and began his speech.
“In 1697,” Alex began, “the Church of England, under the auspices of King William and the Lords of the Treasury, Trinity Church was established as the principal parish of the colony of New York. Its charter granted it some fifty acres of land at the lower end of Manhattan, to which were added some two hundred more under Queen Anne in 1705. Subsequent deeds by the Church of England, with the full knowledge and cooperation of the crown, increased the church’s holdings to nearly four hundred acres over the course of the next seventy years.
“But while the church’s properties grew vastly over that period, its original 1697 charter remained intact and unchanged. This charter, as both of you know well, declared that the parish could not ‘use, lease, grant, demise, alien, bargain, sell, and dispose of’ property ‘exceeding the yearly value of five thousand pounds.’ In effect, Trinity was chartered as a medieval fiefdom. Should its earnings exceed five thousand pounds, they would be siphoned off by the parent church back in England.”
Alex saw Reverend Provoost flash Judge Tankert a look at the word fiefdom—strong language to describe the ecclesiastical body to which, up until a few years ago, both men had served faithfully. But to both his and the reverend’s relief—and delight—Judge Tankert was nodding his head in agreement.
Alex continued in a bolder voice:
“Yet all the while this stipulation was in effect, the parent church was busy loading Trinity down with properties it knew the church could neither develop nor utilize for the betterment of its own parishioners. Trinity was constantly forced to entreat for dispensations so that it could attempt to fulfill its mission for the spiritual, physical, and mental health of its congregation. In this sense, the church treated its colonial offshoot no differently than the crown treated the colonial government or the colonists themselves. Trinity’s every action was hobbled by the mother church, lest the colonists grow too independent. This, gentlemen, is a policy forged in oppression, pure and simple, and it has no place in a liberated and free United States.”
Alex paused for a breath. Up till now, he had merely been summarizing the facts of the case, and adding a political gloss that he knew would go over well with the rector and the judge, both of whom had been staunch patriots during the war. But the time had come to dazzle them with his legal mind.
“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” he continued in almost an offhand manner. “You’re thinking that even if this is true, it is of no consequence: Trinity and the government of New York State agreed to renew the church’s charter under the original terms after independence. And this, too, is true. Yet the renewed arrangement was entered into on the presumption that Trinity’s original charter had been maintained according to English law for the duration of its existence. And there, my friends, we find that that is simply not the case. You see from these documents”—Alex handed each of the men a sheaf of papers that Nippers and Turkey had copied out—“that the value of the land that the crown bestowed upon Trinity exceeds twenty thousand pounds in value. You heard me correctly, gentlemen. Twenty thousand pounds. And that is the undeveloped land, mind you, completely separate from any farming or manufacturing or domicile that may exist upon it. And so, I ask you, how can a document that stipulates that Trinity be limited to assets not exceeding five thousand pounds be considered valid when the issuer of that document itself violated the terms of the agreement? I’ll save you the trouble of answering: It can’t. The Trinity charter has been rendered null and void by the Church of England itself, and as such, cannot be extended to another governmental overseer, British, American, or otherwise. I submit to you, gentlemen, that Trinity is a free church, unbound by any laws save those that govern the citizens of the state of New York and the United States of America.”
Reverend Provoost and Judge Tankert stared at him in amazement for nearly a full minute. Eventually the judge bestirred himself, asked a few questions, made a cursory examination of the documents in his hands. As a representative of the state of New York, he was no doubt aware that Governor Clinton would be less than pleased by this development, but Alex’s reasoning was ironclad and he knew it. The Church of England had been hoist by its own petard. Trinity was free.
After Judge Tankert dismissed them, Alex had a quick meeting with Reverend Provoost. A formal hearing would still have to be held, and a new charter would need to be worked out with the state government in Albany. Alex knew that Governor Clinton had hoped to use the church’s charter against Trinity in order to coerce it into surrendering a large portion of its lands to the state, from which it could reap tens of thousands in business deals and taxes. Clinton wouldn’t be keen to give up the potential revenue from seizing the church’s land without something in return. Alex had a big job ahead of him. But in the meantime, the church was free to develop its properties as it saw fit, which gave it enormous financial leeway and freedom. And part of that freedom was the ability to pay Alex a fee that would ensure his and his family’s prosperity for years to come. If the job wasn’t so pressing, Alex would rent a horse and set off after Eliza to deliver the remarkable news. A letter would have to do.
Reverend Provoost clasped Alex’s hand firmly, then surprised him by pulling him in for an embrace.
“The church appreciates your ingenuity and your hard work, Mr. Hamilton. We look forward to a long and prosperous relationship.”
“As do I, Reverend. Perhaps we might start with the matter of my wife’s orphanage?” He was imagining the delight on Eliza’s face when she read his letter informing her not just of their newfound riches, but the success of her scheme to help the abandoned children of New York. He could think of no better way to apologize for his outburst.
The reverend laughed. “If this scheme of yours plays out as you and Judge Tankert seem to think it will, I’ll see to it that Trinity not only donates the Vesey Street warehouse to Mrs. Hamilton, but refurbishes it to her specifications as well. It is not an overstatement to say that you have saved us, Mr. Hamilton. Trinity Church is forever in your debt.”
* * *
• • •
ALEX LEFT THE rector’s office walking on air. Wait until that odious Mr. Burr heard about this latest victory! He would be drowning in envy!
It was barely noon, yet Alex couldn’t bring himself to go back to his office. Instead he headed home, but once he got there the emptiness of the place was more than he could take. Again he thought of taking off after Eliza. He was lost without her. But it simply wasn’t possible. There were motions to be filed on the morrow, in this and in other cases. He was going to have to stay on his toes to make sure Governor Clinton’s men didn’t try to cut their own deal with the church that might deprive Alex of thousands of pounds.
But he simply had to tell someone his news. He was desperately lonely, and his wife had been gone for much too long. And so, ten minutes after he’d walked through his front door, he was heading back out into the late summer sunshine.
Ruston’s was doing a bustling lunchtime business. Sally was working the ale room with two other barmaids. Alex asked her to send up a cider and one of those chilled ales—better make it two—then made his way upstairs. Later he would remember that he had been on his way to see Caroline Childress when he caught a glimpse of Maria’s open door from the stairwell. When he told the story to Eliza, he would say that he went to her because he feared something was wrong, but the simpler truth was, that for whatever reason, it was Maria he wanted to celebrate with, not Caroline. It broke his heart how broken she looked the other night. Perhaps it was because he needed someone to apologize to, and Eliza was far away. Perhaps it was because Maria reminded him of his mother. Or perhaps it was just because he wanted to put a smile on her face.
He hurried down the hall. To his relief, he found Maria sitting in the window, staring out at the cloudy sky, which threatened rain.
&
nbsp; “Mr. Hamilton!” she said brightly. “I saw you approaching on Water Street. I had hoped you were coming to see me.”
“I, ah, of course I was,” Alex said, a curious statement that he realized was both not true and true at the same time. “May I come in?”
“Of course,” Maria said, indicating the room’s other chair.
Alex stepped inside, then hesitated by the door. He wasn’t even sure why he was hesitating, until he realized he wasn’t sure if he should close it or not.
You’re being silly! he told himself. She is not some maiden with her mother listening in from another room, and you are not her love-struck beau! She is a guest in a private inn! Close the door and stop acting like a fool!
He pushed the door shut, resisting the urge to look up and down the hall. He had no idea why he felt like a fugitive, but he did.
He took a seat in the wooden rocking chair. He felt suddenly warm, and took off his hat and fanned his face with it.
“To tell you the truth,” Maria said after a moment, “I wasn’t sure, after our conversation the other day, if you would be back or not. I half expected Mrs. Childress to evict me the next day.”
Alex’s flush increased, and he fanned himself more ardently.
“Oh, Mrs. Reynolds, you must know that I would never do that! There is no doubt I was taken aback by the knowledge of your . . . of your deception, but after a night’s reflection it seemed clear to me that any falsehood you told was for the sake of self-protection, and not to harm or misuse me. Indeed, as I look back on it now, I believe I overreacted. It seems unfair of me to have expected you to trust me, when so many people—so many men—have treated you so poorly before. And so, from the bottom of my heart, I entreat you to accept my apology. My behavior was not chivalrous and simply unworthy of you.”
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