Hamilton's Battalion: A Trio of Romances

by Courtney Milan

  “Sometimes they do.” She sighed.

  “But then,” John said, “that has always been the thought, hasn’t it? We make the world we can, and tell those who come next how to make it better. I suppose we’ll get all the way home eventually.”

  Author’s Note

  Thanks for reading The Pursuit Of… I hope you enjoyed it!

  This story is a prequel (of sorts) to my next historical romance, After the Wedding—Adrian Hunter, a descendant of Lizzie and Noah Hunter, is the hero of that book.

  If you want to know when that book (and the next ones I write) will be out, you can sign up for my new release e-mail list at www.courtneymilan.com, follow me on twitter at @courtneymilan, or like my Facebook page at http://facebook.com/courtneymilanauthor.

  For a historical note on this novella, acknowledgments, and a list of other titles, please skip to the end.

  To read That Could Be Enough by Alyssa Cole, just go to the next page.

  That Could Be Enough

  BY ALYSSA COLE

  Mercy Alston knows the best thing to do with pesky feelings like “love” and “hope”: avoid them at all cost. Serving as a maid to Eliza Hamilton, and an assistant in the woman’s stubborn desire to preserve her late husband’s legacy, has driven that point home for Mercy—as have her own previous heartbreaks.

  When Andromeda Stiel shows up at Hamilton Grange for an interview in her grandfather’s stead, Mercy’s resolution to live a quiet, pain-free life is tested by the beautiful, flirtatious, and entirely overwhelming dressmaker.

  Andromeda has staid Mercy reconsidering her worldview, but neither is prepared for love—or for what happens when it’s not enough.

  For anyone with a heart of glass—shattered glass possesses its own kind of beauty.

  Chapter One

  Harlem, 1820

  Mercy shivered in the bracing morning air of her room and pulled her wrap more tightly about herself. She grumbled at the cold seeping up from the ground, then caught herself—it was better than the dank Gold Street cellar of her childhood. Perhaps her years at The Grange had made her soft at last, despite the hard work that kept her perpetually occupied.

  She made her way across the small servants’ quarters, walking confidently though there was no window and the sun’s rays didn’t illuminate her path. She could find anything in the darkness of her room after ten years at The Grange. That was the benefit of a simple, orderly life: no surprises to trip her up. Everything was as it should be.

  She pulled out the chair at her desk, an old wooden thing that had made its circuit through the Hamilton children and now belonged to her. When she was young and foolish, she’d imagined she’d have her own writing desk in a home filled with laughter and warmth; lofty dreams for an orphaned Negro girl scraping by in New York City. She’d been promised those things many times over, but whispers in the darkness meant nothing once exposed to the harsh light of reality. She’d gotten her desk, at the very least.

  It was a reliable and lovely old thing. She spread her hand over the surface in the darkness, traced her finger over the name Philip gouged deep into the wood. Mercy had always wondered if it was his handiwork, or a child’s attempt at memorial to their brother. Perhaps it had been Angelica, who’d never recovered from the shock of his loss. These Hamiltons didn’t let go of what they’d cherished. They tended to their love like keepers of the flame, nourishing it with ridiculous hope and hoarded memories. Mercy didn’t understand them; she’d smothered her own flames, drowned them in tears and stirred the ashes until she was sure no embers remained.

  She was fine now. She had a position in the home of a respected family. A room. A desk.

  She’d received the desk after Mrs. Hamilton realized that Mercy could be of assistance with her interviews with, oh, just about anyone who’d ever crossed paths with Alexander Hamilton. Those damned, never-ending interviews that the widow threw so much energy into—both her own and that of everyone in her vicinity. That’s what the desk was for: the work of preserving a legacy, and not even Mrs. Hamilton’s own. Mercy sometimes wondered who Elizabeth Schuyler had been, and if she’d ever suspected that one day she would be sacrificed on the altar of her own devotion.

  That was the thing no one told you: great love took more than it gave, and the greatest love could obliterate everything you’d been. It could eat up every bit of you—your past, your hopes and dreams—it was all-consuming, never satiated. Mercy’s literacy and adeptness with words had been recruited to feed that awful hunger on behalf of Mrs. Eliza Hamilton, and thus Mercy’s room had been outfitted with a desk. It was for efficiency’s sake, nothing more.

  Mrs. Hamilton didn’t know about the words that had once pounded in Mercy’s heart and in her skull and forced themselves through the nib of her quill like blood welling from a wound. Mrs. Hamilton didn’t know the words had stopped, casualties of Mercy’s own great love—they had been Mercy’s sacrifice. It was all for the best, really. Those words had been dangerous.

  Mercy had a brief flash of memory: paper curling into ash. Her words—her world—being consumed by flames. A smile that she had once found lovely marred by contempt.

  “Don’t be foolish, Mercy. You seek beauty in everything, but sometimes there is no beauty in the truth.”

  Mercy still dutifully wrote every evening; the words were bland and dull now, but they were her own. She didn’t know why she still indulged the urge; perhaps she retained a bit of the willfulness that had gotten her strappings for stealing books from the orphanage’s library. Perhaps she was worried she’d simply disappear if she stopped putting pen to paper.

  She reached for the striker and flint, lit the melted-down nub of her candle, and slid her journal in front of her. She tapped a finger on the page to ensure the ink had dried overnight, though if she smudged her banal musings it wouldn’t be a tragic loss to the world of letters.

  Awoke. Drank tea and ate a biscuit—must find new recipe for Sarah. Swept the parlor, study, and hall. Transcribed copy of E.H.’s interview with a Lieutenant Connor as requested by J.H. Sorted pack of correspondence between A.H. and C.M. ca. 1799, received from the lawyer of C.M. Walked Angelica about the grounds three times; she did not want to talk but was serene. Dusted Alexander in the foyer. Cleaned the front-facing windows and windowsills. Bathed. Yearned.

  Mercy straightened in her seat, the abrupt scrape of the chair legs against the floor disturbing the morning quiet. That and the sudden skipping beat of her heart.

  Yearned?

  She had been exhausted the previous evening when she recorded her daily activities, but tired enough to slip and write that? It was rubbish, and she had no time for rubbish that wasn’t being sorted or disposed of, especially not on an interview day.

  She dipped her quill into the inkpot and carefully scratched out the word, starting with a line beneath it and then layering upward, walling it out.

  Slept, she wrote in the space after the dark bruise of ink she’d created. That word was more fitting. Accurate, succinct, and something that was allowed to her in this life.

  She stood up and dressed, slowly pulling on her stays, chemise, and gown as she did every morning. She did up the buttons slowly and methodically; better to take her time than have to undo them and start again. She’d learned over the years that prudence in all things was the best course. It wasn’t exciting, but she no longer had the constitution for excitement.

  She lifted her elbow toward the ceiling and lowered her head to sniff; her dress would need a wash soon. Perhaps she’d try one of the suggestions she’d seen in the Provincial Freeman. She’d been meaning to try the brown soap and borax solution on her own clothing before washing anything in the household with it, but it was time-consuming with the overnight soak. Or maybe she’d get a new dress so she could go longer between washings. She had enough saved for one, for several really, but it seemed a bit futile. Who would notice?

  She used a boar-bristle brush to scrape her thick hair down into a bun, squeezing
a snood over the mass as big as her fist. With a tightening of her apron strings, she left her room and headed up toward the rectangle of morning light at the top of the stairs. When she’d first arrived, it had struck her that this particular moment was an ascension of sorts, and she had written just that in one of her letters to Jane.

  Ascending the stairs into glorious light; like heaven’s embrace after darkest night.

  That letter was nothing but ash, as was the feeling that had pushed the words from her. Now she called it what it was: starting her workday. There was nothing poetic about it.

  Mercy reached the top of the stairs and froze, caught up in the invisible grip of shock and pleasure and awe that had once been commonplace for her.

  Beautiful. My heart…

  There was an angel standing at the end of the hallway. Mercy was an irredeemable sinner, she’d been told, but she wasn’t mistaken about the divine being before her.

  Buttery rays of morning sun fought for the opportunity to dapple and highlight the woman at the end of the hall. Bright spots of lights formed a corona above her, the warm light silhouetting the shape of her against the wall of the foyer—and what a shape.

  Her vivid green dress was expertly tailored, managing to be both sharp and soft as it hugged her curves, nipped in at the waist, then flared out to flow toward the floor. Mercy wasn’t aware of the latest fashions, but she was sure the dress was on the outer limits of propriety. The bodice enhanced and drew the eye to the swell of her bosom. The split collar framed her neck, making one duly aware of the swanlike column.

  The stranger’s thick hair was pulled into a bun, too, and the mundane respectability of the hairstyle seemed at odds with everything else about the woman, but also somehow fitting. There was something in the way tufts of hair escaped at her temples and nape… Mercy could tell that those curls had been tamed into acquiescence with what was considered appropriate, and just barely. She wasn’t so sure about their owner, judging from the jut of her hip and the way her chin tilted upward as she examined her surroundings.

  No. Cease this train of thought.

  Mercy knew better than to indulge in activities like observing a woman’s shapeliness, but her gaze still clung to the stranger like damp cheesecloth, molding to her curves.

  She had decided to turn back, to flee belowstairs where she belonged, when the woman looked in her direction. Their gazes caught, and even from that distance Mercy felt the tug of attraction.

  No. No, no, no.

  The angel began walking toward her. Marching, more like, if marching could be imbued with sensuality.

  Large amber eyes set in a deep brown face; a smile that managed to be overfamiliar and curious at once. Those two features jumped out at Mercy, slammed into her with a nearly overwhelming force.

  Not again.

  Mercy raised a hand to the ache in her chest. There’d been a time when she’d felt beautiful things acutely. Felt them in her body and heart and soul. A flower pressed between the pages of a book had given her sustenance that even food could not. She’d shed tears at the sight of a bird with a ribbon streaming from its beak, flying toward its nest. She knew better than to expose herself like that now; years of experience and heartache had cured her of those naive tendencies. But the angel before her stirred that familiar sense of awe, of want, despite Mercy’s hard-earned knowledge.

  Mercy dropped her hand. Swallowed. Remembered who she was and what she was about.

  “Are you being helped, miss?” she asked frostily. “It’s rather early for uninvited guests; for those with manners, that is.”

  The smile didn’t leave the angel’s face. It shifted slowly, subtly, in a way that made Mercy reassess her first impression. This was no angel. The woman was most certainly a devil, come to tempt Mercy to wickedness. Lucifer had been the most beautiful angel of all, had he not? She’d read that in a poem, but Mercy couldn’t imagine anything more beautiful than the woman approaching her.

  The curve of the woman’s lips was mocking, and the light, feminine sway of her hips took on a sudden, pendulous swagger. She approached, loose-limbed and fearless, making Mercy’s rigidity more stark, more embarrassing.

  Mercy had to look up a bit to meet the woman’s gaze. Tension crept up her neck, spread over her scalp, as the woman stared down at her.

  “Ahhhhh. You’re one of those, are you?” the woman asked. Her voice was smooth and assured.

  “One of what?” Mercy felt suddenly exposed. She tried so hard to keep her desires hidden, but it seemed this woman could see right through her. Her face grew hot and her breathing lost its rhythm so that she was suddenly aware that her body was doing it; for a moment, she forgot how to inhale.

  The woman kept smiling, and assessing, and Mercy finally pulled in a breath.

  “I am simply fulfilling my duty and trying to ascertain who you are.” She tried to keep her tone firm and serious, as if she hadn’t just gasped ridiculously like a trout at the seaport market.

  The woman took a step forward, that teasing smile still on her lips, and Mercy saw that it hadn’t been the effects of the morning sun casting the stranger in a good light; she was even lovelier up close.

  “No,” the woman said. “You were simply trying to put me in my place.”

  Mercy stared past the woman’s shoulder, unable to look her full in the face. A wild sensation swelled in her chest; this beauty was painful. Mercy wanted to beat her fists against a wall, to scream. She’d thought herself done with such surges of emotion. She imagined this was the betrayal an old fisherman felt when a wall of water suddenly appeared on seas that had always been calm for him.

  There was a brush against Mercy’s face, and then the bare skin of the woman’s thumb and forefinger pressed lightly into Mercy’s jaw, guiding her face so that their gazes met. “Better than you have tried, friend. But if you’d like a go, I welcome the sport.”

  Mercy tried to think of a retort, but the press of those fingertips had the same effect on her thoughts as they would a candlewick, snuffing them out. Mercy couldn’t tell if the woman’s words were an invitation or a dare or both. Something Mercy had locked deep inside of her years before rattled the bars of its cage, eager to meet the woman’s challenge. An image flashed in her mind of what sport could be had and a tremor went through her.

  The woman’s mocking smile returned.

  “Miss Stiel?” Henry the butler’s voice rang out in the hall, and both women turned toward it, though Mercy was the only one who jumped guiltily.

  “Yes, I am Miss Andromeda Stiel, granddaughter of Elijah Sutton, he being a member of Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton’s battalion, invited to Hamilton Grange for a meeting with one Mrs. Eliza Hamilton.” The woman spoke at rapid-fire pace, though her demeanor was the picture of calm. “We went through this at the door when you attempted to leave me outside in the cold morning air like a beggar waiting for alms.”

  Andromeda. The name quite suited the woman.

  “You were told to wait in the foyer,” Henry said, not hiding his displeasure.

  Mercy was impressed. This Andromeda wasn’t making Henry go all red-faced and befuddled; at least one of the staff had the situation in hand.

  “Yes, I was, but the foyer is chilly and not at all where you leave a guest invited to your home,” this Andromeda said. She tilted her head and looked at Henry for a moment, then sucked in a breath. “And, seeing how I am the one who’s traveled all the way out to this far-flung corner of the earth, quite out of the way of the civilized regions of our fair city, to perform an act of kindness in granting Mrs. Hamilton’s request for information from my grandfather Mr. Elijah Sutton, I thought perhaps I might see about getting a warm drink, as none was offered. Apologies if my desire to ward off the ague has put you out.”

  The words had been sharp and smooth, like Andromeda’s dress, and delivered so quickly as to form a deluge of recrimination.

  Mercy’s eyes went wide as two red spots bloomed on Henry’s cheeks. Henry? Blushing?
None of the other servants would believe her if she told them.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said.

  “And you shall receive it.” She winked at Henry and his blush deepened. “Now about that warm drink?” She turned and caught Mercy’s gaze, held it, then tilted her head meaningfully down the stairs before swaying toward the parlor.

  Mercy understood two things quite well: one, she’d just been put in her place, and with an efficiency that was remarkable; and two, if she’d thought previous interviews she’d sat in on had been difficult, the one awaiting her would be the worst of them. Being in the same room as this Miss Stiel would be a test of will.

  She raised a hand to her chin and notched her fingers where the skin still tingled from the woman’s unexpected touch.

  Andromeda.

  This interview needed to be over with quickly; Mercy would only be able to breathe naturally again once the woman was out of her sight.

  Chapter Two

  Mercy often found the parlor drafty, with all those large windows, but she was exceedingly warm that morning. The normally sedate room throbbed with the echo of Andromeda’s words.

  “After Lafayette wouldn’t give in, my grandfather tried to calm Hamilton down. Hamilton wasn’t having it, though, so he stormed off to Washington and the decision was made in his favor because of course he knew his ranking relative to every other man who might try to steal his chance at glory,” Andromeda said with a shrug of her shoulders and roll of her eyes, as if she were speaking to an old friend and not the esteemed wife of one of the Founding Fathers of their nation.

  Mrs. Hamilton had heard this story many times before, but she was rapt, nodding along with delight.