I nodded eagerly. “When shall we expect him?”
“I’ve had no replies to my letters,” he said, his expression darkening. “I do not believe we should expect him at all.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I was. Alexander’s last memories of his father were so old now that I wondered if he’d even recognize the man should their paths cross again. But to have his father not bother to reply to his letters was a sad, disheartening event.
He shifted his shoulders as if they carried the entire burden of his father’s neglect.
“Even if he’d no interest in me, I thought at least he’d wish to meet you,” he said. “He has no other daughter, you know.”
“No, he doesn’t,” I said. “But soon you’ll have me as your wife.”
“Mind you, you’ll have me as your husband, too,” he said, and at last he smiled. “My own Betsey. What more could I ever want than marriage to you?”
* * *
I married Alexander Hamilton on December 14, 1780, in my parents’ parlor, the same room where we’d first met three years before.
Unlike the modern taste for lavish weddings, ours was a simple ceremony at noon in our Dutch Reformed faith, without music, ostentation, or pretense. Alexander and I stood before our church’s minister and exchanged our vows, with a crowd of my family in attendance as our witnesses. While it saddened me that Alexander had Mac McHenry as his only guest, I cheered myself to think how he could now count upon my family, with all my dozens of cousins, aunts, and uncles as his, too.
This parlor was always a cheerful place, with tall windows on two sides that always drew the sunlight. Because snow blanketed the lawns around the house, the reflected sun was especially bright, as if blessing our union with its brilliance.
After much deliberation, Alexander decided to wear his uniform in all its noble simplicity, and in honor of our shared sympathies for liberty. In his pocket he carried the wedding handkerchief I’d worked as a gift for him, the finest Irish linen with a pattern of pulled threads, and a gift that he treasured always as a memento of the day.
As the bride I was entitled to two shifts of wedding attire. For the ceremony and the wedding breakfast that followed, I wore an elegant Polonaise gown of white satin, trimmed with silver ribbons and edged with bands of dark fur, it being winter. I’d pink stockings with bright green satin shoes on my feet, and a pleated cap of such fine linen that it was no more than a hazy crown upon my dark hair, which I’d left unpowdered for the morning. Over my shoulders was a sheer linen kerchief that I’d embroidered myself for the occasion with a pattern of wreathes and swags, and in my pocket for luck was a handkerchief edged in fine Italian lace, a gift from Mamma. As ornament, I also wore a strand of coral beads given me as an infant by my grandparents, and in my ears were gold and coral earrings from Angelica and Mr. Carter.
But my most treasured jewel was the one I would wear forever, the gold wedding ring that Alexander slipped upon my finger to make me his wife: a cleverly devised gimmel ring of two thinly wrought bands, one engraved with his name and one with mine. Together the bands twisted and fit snugly against each other into a single, shining gold band, without beginning or end. To this day, I have not taken it from my finger since Alexander placed it there, nor will I ever do so, not in this life.
As the day stretched into evening, more guests appeared at our house for a larger celebration, with dancing in our center hall and a late supper with bottles of Madeira that had been smuggled through the British blockades. I changed into a deep blue satin gown, trimmed with painted bouquets of flowers and ribbons, and powdered my hair as white as the drifts outside.
Our stable yard was filled with the sleighs of those who’d come a distance to attend. Our guests included every prominent Dutch family in New York, plus others of distinction in the state who offered us their best wishes.
Flushed and fortified with Papa’s Madeira, Mac McHenry stood on the landing of the stairs to make a grand toast, classically inspired, in honor of Alexander and me. This toast included a long poem whose bawdy passages made my older aunts blush, and me, too, as was likely intended, although Alexander declared it worthy of a true laureate. Either way, it was one more thing that made our wedding unlike any other. Despite the rigors of her pregnancy, Mamma had been determined that our wedding would be Albany’s most notable of the Christmas season, and there was no doubt she’d succeeded. I heard the revelry lasted so far into the night that it was morning before the last guests left.
I say I heard, not having witnessed it myself. Around ten o’clock, Alexander and I withdrew from the celebrations. I’d begged my parents for us to be spared the traditional wedding night humiliations, wherein the bride and groom were taken upstairs, undressed, and put to bed by their drunken friends with every kind of lewd jest imaginable. Perhaps Mamma pitied me, or perhaps she pitied Alexander with only a single friend to escort him, but she finally agreed and made certain that Papa relented as well.
Instead we slipped away on our own and hurried upstairs before anyone could take notice. It had been a long, long day, filled with excitement and many emotions. I’d so anticipated the moment when Alexander and I would first be alone as husband and wife, but when at last we were standing in the bedchamber, I felt suddenly shy.
“You’re quiet, Mrs. Hamilton,” he said, his smile crooked, and I wondered if he, too, were feeling the weighty significance of his moment.
I smiled, and blushed. “Mrs. Hamilton,” I repeated. “How fine that sounds!”
“It does indeed,” he said. “I am honored to present to you my wife, Mrs. Elizabeth Hamilton.”
I curtseyed to continue the game. “My husband, Colonel Hamilton.”
He took my hand to lift me up, and held it, beginning to draw me gently closer. “You cannot know how happy I am tonight with you as my wife.”
Yet I hung back. “I hope I’ll always make you that happy,” I said, my heart racing as I thought of how much more worldly and experienced he was than I. I didn’t know why I felt so skittish. This was Alexander, the man I’d chosen for the rest of our lives. “I love you so much.”
“And I love you, too, Betsey,” he said, his gaze slipping lower over my body.
Self-consciously I thought of how my elegant wedding attire had suffered from the crush at the supper and from dancing. My kerchief was crumpled and flat, my dress spotted with spilled wine, and everything was dusted with the powder that scattered from my disheveled hair.
“I should call Rose to undress me,” I said, but before I could, he placed his fingers over my lips.
“Shhhh,” he said softly. “You don’t need your maidservant. We don’t need anyone else now but each other. I’ll help you undress.”
I smiled in spite of myself, picturing my stalwart solider husband as a dainty lady’s maid. “You needn’t do that.”
“But I want to,” he said. “I’m your husband now, and I want to do everything for you.”
“I don’t know why I’m being so foolish,” I said, tears stinging my eyes.
“You’re not foolish,” he said. “You’re perfection. Love me as I love you, Betsey. Trust me, and our joy will be boundless.”
I nodded, for I already loved him beyond measure, and trusted him with my happiness and everything else. I took a deep breath and kissed him, and loved, and trusted.
And indeed, as he’d promised, that night our joy was boundless.
* * *
For the next day and night we kept to ourselves, and though the rest of the household continued around us, Mamma saw to it that no one troubled us, and that our meals were brought upstairs to us on a tray. Not only did we keep to our bedchamber, but we seldom ventured from the bed itself. Such is the happy pattern of the newly wed, and we were no different, discovering a hundred ways to beguile and please and make our love our own. We were wonderfully suited to each other, my new husband and I. I do not know if I believed Angelica’s claim that our family was particularly amorous, or if I should grant
all credit to Alexander, who would have been glad to receive it as his manly due. Regardless of the reason, our passions and our satisfaction were in perfect balance, and blissful joy was ours.
Finally, and reluctantly, we rejoined the others after two days apart, appearing at family breakfast together. Although I was flustered to see my parents again, knowing how much had changed about me since I’d seen them last, they kindly didn’t tease me or Alexander, but treated us the same as they had before our marriage. That first awkwardness soon passed, and I settled into the happy state of being Mrs. Hamilton.
But the army was much less understanding of honeymoons, and even the three days of our wedding was an interminable time for Alexander to be away from his desk and correspondence. A considerable pile of reports, dispatches, and letters from headquarters had been delivered for him just in the few days we’d kept to ourselves. He set to work immediately, his focus as intent as if he weren’t a newly minted bridegroom, and he continued to work that night long after I’d fallen asleep in the bed behind him.
Though I’d wished we’d had more time alone together, I could scarcely complain. His devotion to his responsibilities was a kind of loyalty, and one of the inviolable qualities that made him so honorable a gentleman, almost to a fault. I’d always known this of him, and I respected it.
I soon learned, however, that even the most conscientious of gentleman can be seduced into performing duties of a more intimate sort, and over the next weeks letters from His Excellency were made to wait their turn. Nor did Alexander object, and in fact he was every bit as eager as I to be distracted from his work. I have never seen him more relaxed, more happy, more filled with hope, which only increased my own contentment.
I was also pleased to see the ease with which we became part of my parents’ large household in our new roles as husband and wife. Papa in particular was swiftly coming to regard Alexander as another son as well as a military colleague and fellow officer, and I was delighted to see that the friendship that had begun last winter in Morristown had only deepened with our marriage.
Even my younger brothers soon discovered that Alexander could be persuaded to join them out of doors for a mock battle with snowballs, at which he proved ruthlessly adept. I watched them, cheering and laughing, and thinking of how much younger my new husband looked when he played the games of the childhood he hadn’t had. He didn’t hold back with my brothers, either, hurling the packed snow as hard as he could, taking risks, and dodging their missiles with determined agility. His intensity gave me an uneasy glimpse of the kind of soldier he must be in a true battle, and I prayed with all my heart that he’d never see another real engagement with guns and artillery in place of snowballs.
But among my sibilings, it was Angelica’s opinion that mattered most to me, and she, too, continued to laud my new husband for his intellect, his charm, and his wit, and congratulated me for falling in love with so amiable a spouse. Little wonder that I basked in the glow of her approval. But how could Alexander and Angelica not become friends? Their banter at the supper table was more entertaining than the playhouse, and I could only sit by and listen in wonder to their conversations. When English seemed insufficient for a specific point, they lapsed into French, and Papa joined them, for he, too, spoke that language.
I thought of that still-open appointment as an envoy to the Court of Versailles, and how much Alexander deserved it. Surely there couldn’t be another man in the entire country who could fill the position with more skill and delicacy, and while I knew it was unwise to ask the Heavens for temporal gains, I still resolved to say an extra prayer or two that he finally be rewarded.
It was difficult not to share the possibility of the French appointment with Angelica. She would surely share my hope that Alexander would receive it in honor of his merit, but she’d also consider the real possibility that we—Angelica, Mr. Carter, Alexander, and I—could one day meet in Paris. Mr. Carter had promised to take Angelica there (and to his home in London, too) once the war was over and American ships were safe from capture, and to imagine the four of us in Paris—Paris!—at the same time was a dream indeed.
But one late one evening, Angelica revealed an entirely different sort of dream to me involving Alexander.
“I’ve never met a gentleman who enchants me more than your Hamilton,” she declared grandly as we made our way upstairs. Mamma had already retired and the men were still at the table downstairs, as men do. As it was, Angelica and I had stayed there longer than usual ourselves, and all I wished now was to sleep, not begin another long conversation with my sister.
“He is my constant love,” I said, stifling a yawn. “I’m glad you two have become friends.”
“Friends, oh, yes,” she said, sweeping her arms through the air. She’d had her share of drink tonight, too; she and Mr. Carter did enjoy their wine. “What if I asked you to share your darling husband with me, Eliza?”
I laughed at her preposterous request. “That’s Papa’s Madeira talking, Angelica,” I said, bemused. “What would Mr. Carter say if he heard you?”
“John is not your Hamilton,” she said slyly, pausing on the landing to lean against the railing. “I heard you with your bridegroom last night, little sister. What a lover he must be.”
“He’s my husband, Angelica,” I said, blushing furiously. In most cases, I valued my sister’s opinions, but not when she was like this. “We’re married.”
Angelica waved her hand as if this didn’t signify. “I think we should share him,” she said. “He could be our Lord Turk, and please us both.”
“Angelica, no,” I said, ashamed for her.
“He’d agree,” she insisted. “What man would refuse?”
“My husband would,” I said. “Yours would, too.”
She shook her head and wrinkled her nose. “I think we should ask Hamilton his opinion.”
“And I think you should go to bed,” I said, gently guiding her back toward the stairs, “and forget you’ve ever breathed such rubbish.”
Fortunately, she did forget, or leastways never mentioned it again. I wouldn’t have shared her foolishness now except that it proves how thoroughly my new husband captivated my family, enough to make my sister speak so.
But as enjoyable as these weeks of holiday and honeymoon had been, they too swiftly came to an end, as all such diversions do. It wasn’t just knowing that in early January we would leave Albany to return to the army. No, the true end of this blissful time was announced in a pair of letters from Philadelphia that arrived in quick succession.
The first letter came from his dear friend John Laurens, who sorrowfully revealed that not only had Alexander been denied the envoy’s post at Versailles, but that Congress had instead awarded it to Laurens himself, even though he’d lobbied most vehemently for his better-qualified friend. Not knowing John Laurens, I could only secretly wonder how, in good conscience, he could accept the position if he truly believed Alexander to have been the better candidate. Alexander, however, didn’t question his motives at all, and thus I knew well enough to keep my opinion to myself. In the meantime, he put all his hopes into the Russian position, telling me over and over how well-suited he was for it, as if I’d any say in the final decision. How I wished I’d had that ability to make him happy!
Three days later a letter arrived from John Matthews, the congressman who’d nominated Alexander for the Russian post. I was in the hall when it was delivered, and with the letter in my hand, I rushed to the stables where Alexander was discussing horses with Papa. I handed it to him without a word, and at once he excused himself from my father and took the letter out of doors to read. I followed, prepared either to rejoice with him, or offer consolation if the news was not what he’d wished.
It wasn’t. I saw at once from how empty his face became. Because I knew him so well, I recognized this as his blackest despair, and infinitely worse than any other man’s wild ravings.
“Come,” I said quietly, slipping my hand into the crook of his
arm. “Walk with me.”
Mute with disappointment, he nodded, and stuffed the letter into his pocket. I led him into the snowy gardens, away from the house and the sympathy of others. His pride would not suffer that, not now. I knew he’d be better served by the bleak austerity of the winter landscape, by bare trees and gray skies that would reflect his humor. Narrow paths had been cleared through the gardens, with only snowy mounds on either side to show where there’d be bright flowers come spring. In silence we walked swiftly, my steps hurried to match his, to the orchards, around the kitchen gardens, and back to what would be roses.
“It has nothing to do with my merits,” he said at last, so out of context that I knew he’d been working entire arguments in his head all the while we’d been walking. “My qualifications were more than enough to meet the requirements of the post.”
“Very true,” I agreed.
“Laurens says it’s because I am so unknown to the gentlemen of Congress,” he said bitterly, his words little clouds of disappointment in the cold air. “I’m certain he’s right. I have no property, no fortune, to give me stature, nor have I a father or other family to support me in the circles who have the power of decision. Whatever my successes, they are empty accomplishments in such a world without the false buttressing of fame to support them.”
“There will be other posts and other positions,” I said, soothing. “You underestimate your true value.”
“I don’t doubt my value to the country,” he said. “What I lack is the reputation that brings my name instantly to mind for appointments. I can hardly gain that reputation by writing letters and making tallies.”
“Your work for His Excellency is important, Alexander,” I said. “He trusts you like no other.”
“He trusts me to write letters for him in French, a skill he clearly regards as without value, else he would have learned it himself,” he said. “All others around me have prospered and moved forward, while I remain to be buried by the same tasks and tedium. But no more, Betsey. I am done, and I’m resolved there must be change.”
I, Eliza Hamilton Page 18