I, Eliza Hamilton

by Susan Holloway Scott

  “It is indeed,” he said firmly. “The sympathies of Britain and France, too, lie with the exiled Tories who have come to rest in their midst, telling their pitiful tales and making us out to be the ogres. If we wish to garner any respect in the greater world, we can’t behave like those ogres, which is exactly what is happening here in New York.”

  I sighed, remembering the burned-out shop of the poor paper seller. “We do have our share of ogres, particularly in the legislature.”

  “Particularly in the Governor’s House,” he said with open disgust, and I realized from the tone of his voice that he was slipping from his prepared thoughts into personal opinion. “Clinton is a ringleader more than a governor. He ignores the peace treaty as if it holds no sway over New York. He panders to the lowest sort of ignorant rabble, and incites them to believe they are entitled to far more than they are. If he so much as glances at a prosperous gentleman and whispers ‘Tory,’ then that is permission enough for his followers to hector and destroy that gentleman and steal his goods and lands, without risk of repercussion.”

  I nodded, for it was no secret that Alexander did not like (nor was in turn liked by) the present governor of New York, George Clinton. My father didn’t like him, either. In another time, they might all have been friends, or leastways amiable acquaintances, since they’d much in common. Clinton had served in the army and the militia, he was a friend of General Washington and an ardent patriot who’d signed the Declaration of Independence, and from his own pocket he’d supplied the Continental Army with supplies, much as had Robert Morris and my father.

  But Clinton’s concept of patriotism included a deep and irrational hatred of Tories as a whole, as if every one of them, young or old, men or women, held the same beliefs and the same degree of evil. He dangerously condoned arrests, whipping, and even tarring and feathering of Tories. With his encouragement, the New York legislature had passed stringent laws to punish these people, and had encouraged the seizure of Tory-owned properties and goods as a way to fill the state’s coffers, and thereby reduce taxes. As can be imagined, Clinton was very popular for these policies, particularly among the farmers to the north of the state, and he had been reelected repeatedly because of them.

  They also made the governor a very anathema to Alexander.

  “I know you understand, Betsey, for we’ve spoken of this many times before,” he said. His voice was growing louder with urgency, his hand tapping restlessly on the tablecloth, and I was sure that if we hadn’t been sitting behind the table together, he would have already been on his feet and pacing.

  Gently I covered his tapping hand with my own, hoping to calm him. “We have indeed spoken of this many times, my dear. Recall that I’m Mrs. Phocion as well as Mrs. Hamilton.”

  Yet his fervor was so great, it was as if I hadn’t spoken at all.

  “The people came together as a single country to fight the war,” he said. “But now that it’s over, Clinton’s petty vengeance and punitive extortions only serve to divide the citizenry into suspicious factions and mob rule. We can’t have that, Betsey. We can’t have that at all.”

  “Will that be your argument in defense of Mr. Waddington?” I asked mildly. “That mob rule is not acceptable?”

  He scowled and paused, then smiled as he realized what I was doing.

  “I believe you know otherwise, Betsey,” he said. “My argument will be that Clinton’s Trespass Act illegally violates the treaty of peace ratified by Congress, and that Mrs. Rutgers has no grounds for her case.”

  “Exactly so,” I said, and smiled in return, and in triumph, too. “You’re not only remarkable for your kindness, Mr. Hamilton, but you can be quite clever, too.”

  “As are you, my dearest wife,” he said, leaning forward to kiss me. “As are you.”

  * * *

  In the following weeks, the case of Rutgers vs. Waddington was much celebrated. Alexander’s defense was lauded for its coherence, its brilliance, and its fairness, and everyone who was in the room to hear him was impressed by his sheer gift for legal argument and logic. Chief Justice James Duane (the same gentleman who’d given Alexander the freedom of his law library whilst he’d been preparing for the bar) handed down a split verdict as his final ruling. Mrs. Rutgers was entitled to rent from Mr. Waddington, but only for the time before the British occupied the city. The two sides agreed to the sum of eight hundred pounds, a tenth of what Mrs. Rutgers had originally sought, but more than she might now expect to receive.

  But what pleased Alexander the most, however, was what Chief Justice Duane wrote in his ruling: that no state could change or abridge a federal treaty. New York could no longer set itself above Congress, or create new laws that ran counter to the treaty of peace. Governor Clinton and the legislature were being forcibly brought to heel. This was exactly what Alexander had been saying for nearly as long as I’d known him, and to his mind, it was the best vindication in the world. He was still crowing by the time he came home, and it had been a long time since I’d seen him so pleased by the results of his toil.

  After this, I doubt there was anyone in the city of New York who did not know Alexander Hamilton. Of course, some knew it in praise, while others could only speak it in derision or scorn, or denounce him for aiding his onetime enemies. Governor Clinton was said to be especially displeased, spitting every kind of foul slander and epithet from Poughkeepsie toward New York. My husband didn’t care; I believe he gloried in it.

  In fact, he’d crowed so much that my secret fear was that he’d once again discover a taste for politics. But this time, my fears were unfounded. When one of the newspapers put forth his name as a possible candidate for the legislature, he quickly made sure it was withdrawn. I was overjoyed, and delighted that he concentrated instead on his now-flourishing practice.

  Cases came his way from similarly distressed Tories at a rapid rate, so many that he took on more clerks and law students to assist him, and his office hummed with activity as these newcomers attempted to match my husband’s furious pace of work. It wasn’t simply his legal work that occupied him. He also took on several other responsibilities that would have been all-consuming for a lesser gentleman, but for Alexander were simply more facets to his complicated life.

  He continued to dabble in writing essays, and published again as Phocion. Always aware of the importance of education (for education had been key to his own self-betterment), he first helped create and then served upon the Board of Regents, supervising all matters pertaining to teaching and education within the state. He also was a trustee of the university he’d attended when he first came to New York, now renamed Columbia College, and likewise assisted the institution in their recovery from the war. He had agreed to serve as the business agent for Angelica’s husband whilst they were abroad, no easy task given the purposeful complexity of Mr. Church’s affairs.

  Perhaps most notably, he was deeply involved in the founding of the first bank in the city, the Bank of New York on Pearl Street. For guidance he turned to his old ally Robert Morris, who had helped found the first bank in the country in Philadelphia, the Bank of North America, and to Mr. Church, who was one of the Philadelphia bank’s primary investors. Following their advice, Alexander then drew together the first supporters and investors from amongst New York’s most influential gentlemen, and wrote the new bank’s charter as well. For Alexander, the Bank of New York wasn’t simply another business venture, but a way to put many of his long-standing theories on finance to work. He also saw the bank as a way to bring more capital into New York to help rebuild the still-struggling city after the war.

  As busy as he was, he still found time to devote to Philip, whom he considered the most perfect child in all Creation, and to me. While I might have wished to have more time with Alexander to myself, I understood how important—no, how essential—it was for his happiness to be of as much use as possible.

  And we were happy those first early years in New York. Alexander would make lighthearted jests about his �
��lucrative practice,” as if such a thing were ripe for ridicule. The truth was that he was successful, and though neither of us were spendthrifts, we could now indulge in things that made our lives more agreeable. Gradually the rooms in our house acquired handsome furnishings, paintings, and looking glasses. We often had friends and acquaintances to dine, and dine well. The wedding gifts—the porcelain plates and teacups, the silver candlesticks and platters—that we’d received years before finally were unpacked and put to use. We kept a smart gig and horses for traveling about town and making calls. Alexander patronized both a French tailor and a French hairdresser, and the rituals of both, conducted in the French language, pleased him no end.

  Another change in our household since coming to New York was the employment of servants. This had been a determined decision on which Alexander and I had firmly agreed, but not an uncomplicated one.

  At The Pastures, nearly all of the servants, in the fields, the stables, and the house, were Negros owned by my father. Since girlhood, I had accepted this as children do, but as I’d grown older it had never made me easy of conscience. I read of slavery in the Bible, but as a Christian woman the notion of owning another person as property was troubling, and difficult for my conscience to accept. Though my parents were benevolent owners, I’d still witnessed the heartbreaking agony of families being separated and children sold to different owners. Even Papa was not above this, for the slaves he used at his Saratoga mills were so skilled at their trade that he had, on occasion, sold one or two men to other landowners at a profit whilst retaining their wives.

  For Alexander, experience had made slavery even more of an anathema to him. His earliest employment in the Caribbean had involved him directly in the odious trade of slavery, with all its humiliation, pain, and misery. After the war, he’d found it impossible to reconcile the freedom promised by the Declaration of Independence and the enslavement that continued for so many of the population. He became one of the earliest members of the New York Society for Promoting the Manumission of Slaves, and unlike many of the other members (who still retained their own slaves, even while calling for an end to the practice), our household practiced what he espoused.

  When Alexander and I had first been wed, Mamma had continued to make a loan to us of Rose, who had attended me for many years. When we had set up our housekeeping in New York, Mamma had again offered us the use of Rose, but I’d told Mamma that I wished Rose to be given her freedom first, so that I might pay her honorable wages. Mamma had been shocked, and refused outright, claiming that Rose was much too valuable. As much as this saddened me—for I remained very fond of Rose—I’d held firm, and left her behind at The Pastures.

  Instead I’d hired two young women as maidservants in Albany who’d been eager to come to New York: Greetje, who also looked after Philip, and Johanna, who could also help me dress for evening. Later in the year, we also took on a cook, Mrs. Parker, who, though younger than I, was skilled in every manner of cookery both plain and fancy. She’d been widowed during the war, and had found it difficult supporting herself and her children. I considered myself fortunate to have found her, and being a mother myself, happily gave her leave to have her young daughters in the kitchen with her whilst she worked.

  But the most noteworthy addition to our family came in September, with the birth of our first daughter, Angelica. Unlike Philip, whose arrival had been preceded by my constant fear for Alexander’s safety, Angelica was born during a more peaceful time in my life, and perhaps because of that, my travail was far easier. Alexander still fretted over me as my time had approached, and at his insistence I was attended by the esteemed Dr. Samuel Bard, General Washington’s personal physician. I missed the familiar, womanly comfort of the midwives in Albany and even more I missed having my mother at my side, too. Still, perhaps because of the more learned skills of the male physicians who delivered the rest of my children, all my babies survived not only their infancies, but their childhoods as well, a blessing few mothers can claim.

  “I did predict a daughter,” Alexander said, cradling our tiny new girl in his arms as soon as he was admitted again into my presence. “Though I’d no notion she’d be as beautiful as this.”

  I smiled wearily, delighting in the sight of them together. Thanks to Philip, my husband had become very adept at holding babies, a skill most men never did acquire, nor wished to. But Alexander loved his children the same way he did most everything, with fierce concentration and all his heart besides. To watch him with our daughter lying in the crook of his arm, her long linen gown trailing over his sleeve and his face bent low over hers, was to me the sweetest sight imaginable.

  “I believe she already has your dimpled chin,” he said. “A winsome feature for a girl.”

  “Philip has it, too,” I said. “It’s a Van Rensselaer chin, from my mother.”

  “It’s a Hamilton chin now,” he said proudly, slowly walking back and forth. He was not only confident holding babies, but he’d the knack for calming them, too, by making them feel protected and secure. He’d once told me he’d no memory of ever feeling safe as a young child, which had touched me no end. I suppose it also explained how he knew instinctively what a baby most longed for.

  “Philip won’t be happy,” he continued. “He did have his heart set upon a brother.”

  “He’ll change his mind in time,” I said. “My brothers always did.”

  “As they should have.” He smiled warmly at me, then looked back down at the baby. “Perhaps our girl will be a bluestocking like her aunt Angelica, and surround herself with books.”

  “If she does, she’ll be as much like you as my sister.” Alexander continued to read voraciously, but I wondered if Angelica still found the time with four children of her own. “She’ll certainly have enough books to choose from.”

  My eyes begin to drift shut. Now that the first excitement of greeting our daughter had passed and all was well with her, exhaustion was sweeping over me. I was tired, and I was sore, too, as could only be expected.

  “How selfish of me to keep you awake, my dearest,” whispered Alexander, so contritely that I forced my eyes open once again to gaze at him.

  I was thankful that I did. Our daughter was asleep in his arms, and he was smiling at me, his handsome face so full of love that it was more than enough to bring the sting of tears.

  “If our Angelica possesses even half of your grace, wisdom, and beauty, my angel,” he said softly, “then she will be a most fortunate woman.”

  “She’ll be who she’s fated to be,” I said wistfully, and touched our daughter’s cheek with my fingertip. “I only wish Angelica were here now to see her.”

  In truth, I wished my sister were here for me, the way she’d been when Philip had been born. Over a year had passed since she and her family had sailed away to Paris, and I still missed her dreadfully.

  “I wish she were here, too,” Alexander said. “Perhaps Church will relent and bring her back to New York in time for Twelfth Night.”

  But while I knew that Alexander had written to both Angelica and her husband, urging them to return (as had I) for our daughter’s birth, Mr. Church did not share the same impetus to return to America. There was always one more bit of business that detained him in Paris, or one more event at the French court that he considered important to attend.

  The fall changed to winter, and winter into spring and summer. Our daughter cut her first teeth, and soon could not only sit on her own, but had learned to pull herself upright with the help of any nearby chairs or table legs, or, more often, her brother, Philip. After his initial disappointment at Angelica’s birth, Philip had embraced his role as her brother, and though they were not so far apart in age, he was without doubt her protector and her idol. Already Philip showed a generosity of spirit that was rare in three-year-old boys, yet reminded me of his father, and the gentleness he displayed toward his infant sister was a special joy to me.

  There was one more event that solidified our household, and ple
ased me greatly, too. By early 1785, we had lived more than two years at our house on Wall Street, and I thought of it as our home. We lived there at the mercy of a lease, however, an arrangement that was what we could afford in those first years. Having never lived in a property that had been truly his, the fact that we rented made Alexander uneasy, and he longed for the security of ownership and the respectability that came with it.

  He was on occasion called to courts out of the city and farther to the north. From one of these distant locations, I received a hastily written note from him in March. The subject was one of great importance to us, and of great urgency, too. Our house was being offered for sale, for the substantial sum of £2100. The owner wished to sell promptly, and given both the house and the pleasant neighborhood in which it was situated, he would likely receive many offers. As the present tenants, we were being offered the first opportunity to purchase the house, but likewise, we couldn’t wait until Alexander returned to town to make our offer. Instead, he left it to me to attend the seller’s agent as soon as I could, and agree to a purchase that was acceptable to all parties.

  The owner’s agent in New York was another attorney well known to both of us: Colonel Aaron Burr. We had, of course, known Colonel Burr since our early days in Albany, and because he and Alexander were often in court together, and because we’d many acquaintances in common, we frequently saw the Burrs at suppers, assemblies, and other social engagements. The colonel was in attendance far more often than his wife, who suffered so greatly from a recurring ailment as to be nearly an invalid, poor lady.

  But this was to be a business call, not a social one. I dressed in a sober habit of blue worsted with silver buttons and a black silk hat with a curving black plume, and though Colonel Burr’s office was not far away, at the end of Wall Street near City Hall, I had myself driven to make a good show.

  Most importantly, I had directions from Alexander to take the greatest care whilst speaking with Colonel Burr. I was well aware that the colonel and Alexander were together considered the most skilled and successful of the younger lawyers in New York, and to say that they were rivals was not so far from the truth. Because Alexander had taken time away from his office to serve in the legislature and in Congress, Colonel Burr had risen more quickly, but most in the city believed my husband to be the more gifted in the courtroom.