I, Eliza Hamilton

by Susan Holloway Scott

  My only solace had been that, to my eyes, Angelica’s worries had been exaggerated. Perhaps she truly had been too long in Paris, observing French manners. Oh, there were plenty of New York women—and not a few ladies—who openly flattered and flirted with him, even in my presence. In turn he was polite and solicitous, and charming because to be so was in his very nature, but I never once witnessed him encouraging any of them, or stepping across the line of genteel gallantry. Further, every day he reminded me again of his love for me in a hundred small ways, so many that I was sure I was the only one with a claim to his heart. Wasn’t this third child, conceived of love and ardor, proof enough?

  “Here we are, Betsey,” he said, interrupting my pleasant thoughts, and reminding me of the errand upon which we were engaged.

  Being married to Alexander meant my life took many curious turns, but I had never before entered the city’s gaol, nor, as a lady, had I ever intended to. The gaol was in fact our destination this morning, a grimly forbidding building that was more a fortress of brick with few windows, and those crossed with iron bars against escape.

  I held closely to my husband’s arm as he helped me from the gig, and together we climbed the stone steps that led inside. Beneath my heavy cloak, I was dressed more for an afternoon call than for visiting a gaol, but Alexander had assured me that my attire was exactly right: a cream-colored silk Italian gown with a pink silk sash and an embroidered gauze kerchief. I’d had my hair fashionably curled and frizzed in a style that Angelica likened to that worn by the Queen of France, and my head was fully powdered even at this early hour. I’d balked at wearing jewels to a gaol, even though Alexander encouraged me to do so, and in their stead I wore a slender black ribbon tied loosely around my throat as my only ornament.

  “I don’t want you to be frightened, dearest,” Alexander said as we waited in the gaoler’s parlor. “Recall that Mr. Earl is a debtor, not a common criminal.”

  “I’ll admit to being uncertain, Alexander, but not frightened,” I said, “But even you must grant that this is most unusual.”

  “It is,” he admitted. “But it’s a small act of great generosity that will help Mr. Earl resolve his present difficult plight.”

  “I don’t deny the benefit to Mr. Earl,” I said, “and after having gone first, I’ll happily sing his praises to the other ladies in town, as you suggest. It’s just that I’ve never sat for my likeness before.”

  This was true. Despite my parents’ wealth and position, they hadn’t placed importance upon portraits or paintings in general, especially when artists were so rare and charged a premium for their service. Mamma and Papa themselves had only sat for a single portrait apiece, and those many years before.

  But this was an unusual circumstance. Although an accomplished painter who had been trained by masters in London, Mr. Earl was sadly given to drink, and had fallen into such debt that he had been committed to gaol until he could meet the demands of his creditors. Through Alexander’s efforts, and assistance from the Society for the Relief of Distressed Debtors, Mr. Earl had been provided with paints and canvases with the hope that he could earn his way to freedom through portraits. Mine would be the first.

  It was typical of the many charities my husband did for others. He recalled from his own miserable childhood the rare beneficences that others had shown toward him, and as a result he never turned away anyone in true need. Yet he also always acted quietly, without fanfare, and from pure kindness and self-satisfaction.

  “I assure you that sitting for a painter is not a painful experience,” Alexander said, teasing me solemnly. “Besides, I’ve always wanted a portrait of you, just as you so fervently demanded one of me. Ah, here we are.”

  The head gaoler himself ushered us back to a tiny closet of a room that had been converted into a makeshift studio. Mr. Earl greeted us shyly, ducking his head as he bowed; he had the woebegone look of a man down on his luck, from the droop of his shoulders to how the latchets of his shoes were tied with scraps of string instead of the fancy buckles that he’d likely been forced to sell against his debts.

  He scarcely spoke, but bade me sit in the single armchair, turning me slightly. I was aware of the thickness of my waist on account of my pregnancy, and he thoughtfully suggested I rest my hand on the chair to take attention away from my belly. Then he went to stand behind the canvas on his easel to begin his work, and soon the only sound was the muted shush of his brushes moving across the canvas.

  Alexander stood behind him in respectful silence, watching the painting take shape. He’d been right: posing wasn’t difficult.

  “Is it like me, Alexander?” I asked anxiously when Mr. Earl paused to mix fresh paints.

  “Yes,” he said with satisfaction. “Though it’s barely begun, I can already see that Mr. Earl’s genius will capture your beauty and your spirit, too.”

  For the next fortnight I visited Mr. Earl for additional sittings. In an odd way, I enjoyed the time to sit alone with my own thoughts, away from the demands of our household and children. I do not know if, as Alexander claimed, the finished portrait captured my beauty or spirit, but I was pleased by the contentment in my face, a contentment that I’d felt at the time of the painting.

  My only quibble was minor. Mr. Earl painted a narrow black ribbon or cuff at my wrist that wasn’t on my gown. I thought it had the look of mourning, and found it particularly unsettling, and perhaps unlucky, given my pregnancy. When I asked him why, he said that it was his way of making my hands seem paler and more graceful, and that he did the same for most every lady’s portrait. I couldn’t quarrel without wounding him, and so let the black cuff, however peculiar, remain, and I praised his skill to all my acquaintance so he received more commissions to pay his debts.

  What mattered far more to me was how pleased Alexander was with the portrait. He had it hung in the front parlor, and went so far as to invite friends to the house to admire it, and drink a bumper to its beauty, which embarrassed me even as I recognized it was my husband’s way of paying tribute to me as well.

  “You can’t deny it’s a splendid portrait,” he said, standing before it. Our guests had gone, and we two lingered alone before we’d douse the candles and retreat to bed. “Though not as handsome as the original, it will keep me company when you and the children visit your parents.”

  “She’s a good deal more quiet than I, too,” I said wryly. “The painted me won’t chide you for not wearing a quilted waistcoat when it’s cold, or tell you that if you keep working so late, you’ll make yourself ill.”

  “I said that the portrait will keep me company, not that it will be a perfect substitute.” He wrapped his arms loosely around my shoulders, holding me close to his chest as we both gazed up at the portrait. “I like having you look after me. I know how much I miss you when we’re apart.”

  “I miss you, too,” I said softly. “You should have had Mr. Earl make you a miniature portrait. This one would be a little large to carry with you when you must travel for trials.”

  “Not just trials,” he began, then paused, his arms tightening a fraction around me.

  Even before he spoke again, I understood what that slight hesitation meant, and my heart sank.

  “I can’t stand by any longer, Betsey,” he said softly, and I realized that from how we were standing, with my back against his chest, he didn’t have to look me in the eye. “The Confederation of states is foundering, and our esteemed Governor Clinton is one of the leaders determined to make the country sink for his own gain.”

  “You’re going to stand for the Assembly again, aren’t you?” I asked, unable to keep the sadness from my voice. “Did my father put you up to it?”

  “Yes,” he said. “But while your father has told me how much my voice has been missed, this is my decision, not his.”

  I’d wanted to believe that he’d been content with the law. I’d told myself that the joys of our little family were sufficient to keep him from the drama of public office. I’d believed it,
and yet deep down I hadn’t. He burned with ideas and energy. From the first time I’d met him, I’d the distinct sense that he’d be destined for great things, and it had been much of his early appeal to me. It still was.

  I turned in his arms to face him, awkward with my belly between us. “Will you be here when the baby comes?”

  He nodded. “I’ll make certain of that, my angel.”

  “Thank you,” I said softly. I looked down so he wouldn’t see the tears that were likely in my eyes, and rested my palms on his chest, the way I always had. Not so long ago, my hands had rested upon the rough wool of a soldier, and now he wore the rich superfine of a successful gentleman. He was my strength, my pillar, yet once again I must share him with a score of angry gentlemen far from home. But because he wished it, and because he might do those great things for the country his children would inherit, I’d no choice but to let him go back to Poughkeepsie.

  I blinked back the tears, and forced myself to smile. “When does the next session begin?”

  * * *

  As everyone expected, Alexander was elected again in April to represent the City and the County of New York in the State Assembly. The following month, our second son was born, with a shock of black hair and a lusty voice that would rattle us all awake throughout the night. We named him Alexander, after his father, who kept his promise and was home the night of the birth.

  Home then, but not for long. Not only was he now often gone to Poughkeepsie for the meetings of the State Assembly, but he was also appointed by that body as a commissioner to represent New York to a small conference on the state of national commerce, which required much preparation.

  With him away so often, I closed up our New York house and retreated with our children to The Pastures, where the air was healthier for them. My sister Peggy also came often from Rensselaerwyck bringing her young son and daughter, too, so that the infant cousins could be together.

  Peggy and I both wished that Angelica could be there with us as well, particularly this summer. The child my older sister had been carrying the previous summer had been born, a third son named Richard Hamilton Church, soon after they’d arrived again at their home in Paris. I’d rejoiced at her safe delivery, but Angelica’s own joy was obviously mitigated by the baby’s frailty. Unlike his siblings, he was never strong, and despite all the best efforts of the physicians in Paris and then London, he had finally given up his innocent soul to Heaven after only a few short months of mortal life. Sharing her sorrow for the nephew I’d never had the chance to meet made me appreciate my own little ones even more, and thank God for their sturdy health.

  Angelica was distraught with grief, as can be imagined, and Peggy and I both longed to be able to comfort her in person, and not just by letter. Privately I suspected that if Mr. Church had not been so insistent upon hauling my sister back and forth across the ocean whilst she was in a delicate condition, then the son she’d carried might have been of a stronger constitution and survived; of course, I would never be so cruel as to share that opinion with my poor sister, who in her grief already blamed herself too much. But Mr. Church had no plans to return to America that year, and so poor Angelica suffered without our consolation.

  I returned to New York City in September, in time to help prepare Alexander for traveling to his commerce conference in Annapolis. I worried over his decision to ride by himself on horseback to Maryland. He had attempted to maintain as much of his legal work in New York even as he served in the Assembly, and he worked prodigiously long hours. He’d never seem to require as much sleep as most men, but even he had his limits, and over the summer he’d developed a raspy cough that had not gone away. Given the state of his health, I’d preferred he travel by coach or sea instead, but he’d insisted that the ride through the autumn countryside would do him good. He was right, too. He remained an excellent horseman, and being out of doors and away from his office proved the proper prescription, for he claimed by the time he arrived in Annapolis, he felt thoroughly restored.

  I suspect, however, it was more the company he found in Annapolis than the journey that restored him. The conference consisted of only a dozen gentlemen, but among them was James Madison, the small, scholarly representative from Virginia whom he’d met during the Continental Congress, and who shared many of his views. In fact, from Alexander’s telling when he returned to New York City in October, the entire conference soon set aside the question of interstate commerce—its reason for convening—and instead devoted its conversation and energy to proposing another, much more important convention to revise the old Confederation to favor a stronger federal government. By the time they all returned to their home states, they took with them a resolution for a Constitutional Convention to be held in Philadelphia.

  Alexander himself arrived home late one night toward the end of September, after the children and servants were abed and I myself was already undressed and ready for my prayers. I was surprised but delighted to see him after he’d been away, and happily greeted him in the hall wearing only a dressing gown over my nightshift, my feet in slippers and my hair plaited for bed.

  “You should’ve stopped at an inn along the way,” I chided after he’d kissed me. “It’s not safe for you to ride so far alone at night.”

  “The harvest moon lit my way,” he said grandly, still holding me close. “Besides, I wanted to come home to you.”

  “I’m grateful that you did, dearest.” I smiled, and kissed him again. He smelled of leather and horse and sweat, the wonderful scent of his homecomings, and reluctantly I slipped free. “I’ll wager you didn’t stop to eat, either. Come to the kitchen, and I’ll make you dinner.”

  “You know me so well, Betsey,” he said, reaching out to tug playfully on my braid as he followed me into the kitchen. Not wanting to wake the servants, I made him dinner myself from what was on hand, and I sat with him in the kitchen by a single candlestick while he ate. It was like the old days when we’d first wed, especially when he began to tell me of the Convention, of what had been accomplished and what hadn’t. After his first glass of wine, he retrieved his saddlebag from the hall and handed me a copy of the Convention’s resolution.

  “You wrote this, Alexander, didn’t you?” I’d only to skim the first paragraphs to recognize his words and style.

  He shrugged with a carelessness that didn’t fool me for a moment. “I wrote the first draft,” he said. “Others had suggestions.”

  Looking over the edge of the paper, I raised my brows, waiting for further explanation.

  “The Virginians found my initial efforts too impassioned,” he finally admitted. “Madison begged me to be more moderate, or else lose his state’s support.”

  “I can only imagine,” I murmured. I could, too. I’d been listening to Alexander at his most unguarded for years. The subject of the resolution was so dear to his heart that it was easy enough for me to guess the dramatic and—to most men—terrifyingly extreme suggestions that he’d put forth in that first draft.

  He reached across the table and covered my hand with his. “I wouldn’t have had to edit it to such a degree if you’d read it first.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, even though he was likely right. I didn’t read everything he wrote before he shared it with others—and in fact, since I’d become so occupied with raising our children, I’d sadly read less and less—yet I appreciated that he, too, was remembering fondly to earlier days in our marriage, and the furious compositions on finance that he’d addressed to Robert Morris.

  I set the paper down on the table, smoothing it thoughtfully with my palm. “When would this Constitutional Convention take place?”

  “First the states must agree to it,” he said. “Then each state must choose its delegates, and finally a date can be chosen. So the answer, I suppose, is as soon as possible, which won’t be very soon at all. I should hope we’ll gather early in the new year.”

  “ ‘We’?” I repeated. “You are certain you’ll be a delegate?”

 
; He smiled with assurance. “Not even Clinton would dare block me from it now.”

  I smiled, too, but sighed as well, for I suspected that matters would not be so simply resolved. “I should congratulate you, then,” I said. “This is exactly what you’ve wanted, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a beginning,” he said. “There’s no time to be lost. We must move forward and we must make changes, substantial changes, else the country will collapse.”

  As tired as he must be, his enthusiasm was giving fresh energy to his voice. I listened, and I nodded, impressed with all the great plans he had for this new country of ours.

  But I also thought of the more cautious gentlemen like James Madison, and wondered if Alexander would need to be more circumspect in order to gain allies. Sometimes with him, confidence could be like strong drink, and go directly to his head so thoroughly that he’d forget tact and reason.

  “One step at a time, Alexander,” I cautioned. “Pray take only one step at a time, and don’t tread upon anyone else who wanders into your path.”

  He grinned, bowed his head, and touched his fingers to his forehead in a wryly subservient gesture of acknowledgment. I smiled in return, for it was amusingly done, even as I knew he would not heed my advice. I wasn’t sure he could have done so, even if he’d wished it. He’d never grasped, or perhaps had chosen not to, that reserve was not the same as duplicity. He’d always valued honesty above all other virtues, but there were times where a little less of it might have stood him in better stead in the political arenas.

  As the year ended and another began, it was clear that his concerns for the country were well-founded. Individual states levied taxes however they chose, and like niggling misers, refused to send their fair share (or, in some cases, any share) to the federal government for the good of the whole country. As a result, there was no money to address the enormous debt that remained from the war, and the loans granted by other countries went unpaid. To make matters worse, each state continued to print its own worthless paper currency, making debts impossible to settle and merchants unwilling and unable to extend further credit for goods.