I, Eliza Hamilton

by Susan Holloway Scott

  I gasped with righteousness, a little puff of outrage in the winter air. “How dare he say that, considering that he’s an infamous coward who never once has worn a uniform to defend his country?” I demanded. “When it’s common knowledge that he ran and hid in the woods rather than face Cornwallis’s men?”

  Alexander grunted, all the acknowledgment he’d make. We both knew I wasn’t exaggerating; the charges of craven cowardice against Mr. Jefferson were entirely true. Even tiny little Mr. Madison had served in his militia, while Mr. Jefferson had spent most of the war lolling in Paris amidst the luxury he so deplored for everyone else.

  “It’s all part of his ideal America,” Alexander said. “A simple country of self-reliant farmers in the wilderness, without banks or government.”

  “And nary a rainy day or failed crop, either,” I said with disgust. “How easy it is for him to preach simplicity whilst he surrounds himself with rich food, French porcelain, and furnishings covered in silk velvet, and easier still to urge self-reliance when he embraces the evil of slavery, and orders his Africans about to do his every bidding.”

  “Oh, Betsey, my Betsey,” he said fondly. “If only all the entire cabinet and Congress were as vehement in supporting the president as you are.”

  “I’m serious, Alexander,” I said, looking up at him from inside the hood of my cloak. “He has no sense of the modern world. He believes America should be like those fanciful printed linens the French so love, sweet-faced shepherds and shepherdesses frolicking amongst the greenery. I’m entirely serious.”

  “I know you are, dearest, and I love you all the more for it,” he said. “And I will be serious, too. The president has come to me for more reasons why he should sign the bill, and not heed the Virginians. I have only a few days to write my reply.”

  “But you already know what you’ll say,” I said, a little breathless from keeping pace with him.

  “For the most part, yes,” he said. “I’ve a few more arguments to work out.”

  I nodded, understanding, and saying no more. If he wished my opinion, he’d ask it, but for now the act of walking would serve him better. He took my nearest hand from my muff and tucked it into the crook of his arm, clearly in need of that small, silent comfort. I soon found the air to be too cold, however, and instead moved my hand from his arm to the pocket of his coat for warmth. He smiled, and patted my hand through the wool, and we walked that way, side by side and in step, the hem of my petticoat brushing over the toes of his boots.

  As we walked, my thoughts were more ordinary: how best to remake over an old jacket of Philip’s to fit James; remembering that Angelica’s music-master was coming for her lesson tomorrow, not Thursday; and whether I’d have time this afternoon to bake a pie for supper with the last of the Albany apples stored in the cellar.

  But mostly I enjoyed the time with my husband, however silent he might be, and the peace to be found from walking through the city. Although I considered myself a staunch daughter of New York, I will admit that Philadelphia had much to recommend it as a capital. Unlike New York, with its maze of crooked streets crowded into the narrow tip of its island, Philadelphia had been arranged from its inception into a tidy grid of streets named after trees from east to west, and numbers from north to south, making it convenient for both residents and visitors.

  In the seven years since Alexander, Philip, and I had first lived here, the city had changed and prospered, with every last reminder of the war wiped away. But then, I thought wryly, the same could be said of Alexander and me, too, couldn’t it?

  When we finally returned to our house, Alexander went immediately (and silently) to his library and began writing his defense. He had promised it to the president on Wednesday morning, and late Tuesday evening he summoned me again to help him take down his draft and write out a fair copy. We toiled together through most of the night, but when the sun rose, he had his defense ready to present, all forty neatly written pages of it in my sloping hand.

  The president read it, accepted all my husband’s arguments, and signed the bill into law. Alexander had once again achieved another goal, and the country would have its first national bank.

  And the rift between Alexander and Mr. Jefferson widened, and grew deeper still.

  But while my husband had won, in March my father lost in a most shocking way. Running for reelection for his seat in the Senate, he was upset by a man who possessed none of my father’s wisdom, his loyalty, or most of all, his honor.

  Alexander was furious, and convinced that the usurper had been supported by Governor Clinton as another way to attack my husband through his family. This alliance became even more disturbing when Alexander learned that both Mr. Jefferson and Colonel Monroe had made a special journey to New York to meet with the new senator, and, it was rumored, to plot together the downfall of the secretary of the treasury.

  The man who defeated my father and became the new senator from New York was Aaron Burr.

  * * *

  While Philadelphia was an agreeable city three seasons of the year, it became intolerable in the summer. Though often extreme, the heat alone was not the reason that most everyone who could afford another residence in the country fled the city in the months of July through September. The summer brought fevers, and Philadelphia in particular had become notorious for some of the worst outbreaks of yellow fever in the country, killing people old and young by the dozens.

  From the beginning of our tenure there, Alexander and I had decided that while he must remain for work, I would leave with the children during the most dangerous season, and take them to The Pastures. Not only would they be safer there in the country air, but it was also an unspoken way for us to economize. Alexander still refused any financial help from my father, but he wasn’t above letting my parents feed his family while they visited, a not inconsiderable expense.

  This year, too, I felt it imperative that I visit my father, who was chagrined and in low spirits from having lost his seat in the Senate. I had grown accustomed to having him nearby whenever Congress had been in session, first in New York and then in Philadelphia, and I sorely missed his presence.

  Though I was loath to admit it, I was also anticipating a sojourn in the country for myself. Though my duties as the wife of the secretary of the treasury were not nearly so onerous as my husband’s, I was expected to entertain not only his various friends within Congress, but also general supporters of the president. The creation of the first bank and the flurry of financial confusion that followed meant that Alexander needed every ally that could be mustered, and I’d been willing to do my part.

  To be sure, I enjoyed helping him in this way, but I won’t deny that it wasn’t inconsiderable work, not the least of which was keeping a pleasant smile for all who entered our house. Lady Washington had taught me well. The wives of statesmen must mingle and charm, and through their conversations more statesmanship is accomplished than perhaps their husbands realize.

  It was a curious coincidence—or perhaps not, given their unpleasant personalities—that neither Mr. Jefferson, a widower, nor Mr. Madison, a confirmed bachelor, had a wife in the city to represent their interests. At least Mr. Adams, another who considered my husband objectionable, had brought his wife to Philadelphia, and while I found Mrs. Adams daunting, we were more agreeable to each other than our husbands ever were, which I hope in turn eased the business between the gentlemen. (And yes, I heard from others that Mrs. Adams did in fact believe my Alexander to be a coxcomb and worse, exactly as my sister had predicted; although Mrs. Adams herself had the good grace not to say it to my face.)

  But though I wasn’t as exhausted as Lady Washington—who so loathed her official responsibilities that she referred to herself as the “first prisoner of the state” rather than first lady—this degree of social gaiety was undeniably tiring, and I welcomed the excuse to put it aside for the summer. I was determined not to slip into the same private misery that had plagued me before, and returning to The Pastures wit
h my children seemed the best way to do so.

  I also wondered privately if the hectic pace of our lives was responsible for my not conceiving another child. I had been breeding regularly since Philip was born, but now James Alexander was three, and there’d been no sign of another babe to follow him. I was only thirty-four. If it were God’s will that we would be blessed with four children and no more, then I would be content, but I often caught myself thinking of a new baby, and prayed my days of childbearing weren’t quite done yet. I also wished that Alexander could join us in Albany, for he, too, was in sore need of a respite, and I hated to picture him alone as any other bachelor for the summer in our large, echoing house.

  One evening in late June, shortly before I was to leave for The Pastures, we’d one last gathering of our closest friends. As one of the ladies played for us, a maidservant came to where Alexander and I were sitting, and whispered that a woman had asked for Colonel Hamilton, and was even now waiting in the front hall. Because she’d offered no card, I was skeptical, thinking her to be some manner of trades-woman. When the maid continued, however, saying the woman was weeping and in distress, my reserve melted, and I thought only of going to assist the poor creature. But as I rose, my dear husband, ever thoughtful, said that I shouldn’t trouble myself, but instead remain with our guests. Since the woman had requested him by name, he would see her, and return as quickly as he could.

  He left, and was gone perhaps a quarter of an hour. Later, after our guests had departed, he told me the woman’s sad history.

  “The poor woman was beside herself,” he said. “Her husband has abandoned her for another, and left her quite destitute and friendless here in Philadelphia.”

  “How dreadful!” I said, commiserating. “How wicked and thoughtless a man he must be!”

  “Indeed,” said Alexander. “What manner of man would treat his wife so? Being originally from New York herself, she appealed to me in desperation, and quite threw herself upon my charity with the hope that I might assist her return to that city, and her friends there.”

  “I trust that you offered to arrange passage for her.” Because my husband was known for his charity, he was often approached like this, but as a lawyer, he was also wise enough to separate those in true need from others who wished only his money. “She shouldn’t be forced to linger here any longer than is necessary.”

  “I did make that offer, yes,” he said. “We agreed to meet again once she had consulted her friends.”

  “Then you did your best to relieve her suffering,” I said with approval. “What a pitiful story! I hope that this is not the last we hear of her. A city like Philadelphia can be a dangerous place for a desperate woman.”

  “She’s a pretty young thing, too,” he said. “I advised her to take care and to trust no one, from fear she’ll come to harm. Her name was Mrs. Reynolds, in the event she should ever call here again while I am out.”

  I nodded. At the time, I took no notice of the fact that Mrs. Reynolds being a young, pretty woman in distress might have increased Alexander’s desire to assist her. I’d seen it before, and I’d likely see it again, for his gallantry where women were concerned hadn’t diminished over time. I’d always found his gallantry endearing, for as his wife, I received the lion’s share of it myself. I was proud of how my husband still treated me as an ardent lover would, and I couldn’t think of another woman of my age and acquaintance who could say the same.

  Soon afterwards I left by coach with my brood of five children. Alexander rode with us as far as Elizabethtown, bidding us the most sorrowful of farewells from there. Yet the carefree sojourn that I’d expected to find in Albany was not to be. Our youngest son, little James, began to feel unwell just beyond New York City, and by the time we reached The Pastures, he was feverish and dull-eyed and listless, lying curled against me on the seat of the coach.

  We sent at once for Dr. Stringer, our family’s physician in Albany, with my fear rising by the moment for my little one’s life. I recalled all too well the tragedy that had struck my sister Peggy’s family. But to my relief, Dr. Stringer immediately eliminated both yellow and scarlet fevers as the cause of the indisposition, but beyond that he could not determine the exact nature of the fever.

  I worried that the other children would become ill, too, with all of us having traveled together in close company, and poor little James was isolated in my room with only me to tend him. I carefully followed all of Dr. Stringer’s remedies, from keeping James snug in a flannel waistcoat and dosing him regularly with barley water and rhubarb elixir, yet still he did not improve.

  Of course, I’d written to Alexander immediately to let him know of James’s illness, and he’d written directly, his fear for our son as desperate as my own. Of all our children, James was the only one to favor Alexander’s coloring, with the same rosy cheeks, blue-green eyes, and red-gold curls, and perhaps because of that he’d a special place in my husband’s heart.

  If he’d not been so embroiled in the business of the new bank, I’m sure my husband would have come to James’s bedside himself. As it was, he wrote every day begging for fresh news of his darling boy. As a young man, he’d considered for a time studying medicine, and still from interest read widely in medical journals. From these, he’d several suggestions for treating the fever that I shared with Dr. Stringer, and when James failed to improve, we did turn to Jesuits’ bark, as Alexander had recommended.

  Still my little one grew no better, though likewise he grew no worse, but as his mother I would have traded my own health to have his restored. I sat with him by the hour, bathing his small body with cool water and singing softly to quiet his restlessness. He was constantly in my prayers, and I worried guiltily that by longing for another baby, I’d somehow caused my little James’s illness.

  Finally, in late August, the fever began to subside, and my poor little boy began to be more himself. His illness had taken much from me, however, and when Alexander urged me to remain with my parents longer than I’d originally planned, I reluctantly agreed, lingering in Albany until the first week of September.

  Besides, Alexander had another surprise waiting for me. He’d decided we required a larger house, and had found another, grander home for us in the same neighborhood in which we lived now. While we were away, he was having all the rooms painted, and further, having a stable sufficiently large for a carriage and six horses built on the property. I supposed he judged us now grand enough to keep a carriage, though given our finances, I did wonder how it was possible.

  In addition, in November we took our son Philip, now ten, to board and study with the Reverend William Frazer, the Episcopal rector of St. Michael’s Church in Trenton, in New Jersey. Reverend Frazer had an excellent reputation for preparing young gentlemen for admission to college, and from the beginning he and Philip had a mutual regard conducive to our son’s swift progress. We left him with a sizable stock of books and sheaves of paper for compositions, a sufficiency of new clothes (he outgrew things so quickly!), and a basket filled with the small lemon cakes that I knew he’d always loved so well—everything he’d need to prosper in his studies.

  All this I knew, and applauded. Yet as Alexander and I said our final farewells to Philip in the small rectory parlor, I still couldn’t keep from reaching to smooth our son’s errant dark curls, and smooth his collar, and then draw him close to hold one more, one last time. He stood stiff and awkward in my embrace, wanting to be manly, and yet at the very last he’d flung his arms around me and hugged me tight with the same fierce abandon he always had.

  “I cannot believe we’ve left our boy behind, Alexander,” I said, still twisting to look back at the rectory as our carriage drove away. “My own sweet Philip!”

  “We haven’t left him, Betsey,” said Alexander, his own voice tinged with melancholy, too. “He’s left us. It’s the way of the world, you know.”

  “I do know,” I said, blowing my nose yet again. “But he was our first. I still recall him as a tiny, helpl
ess infant, born so soon after Yorktown.”

  “And now he’s an independent young fellow, eager to begin his life without us trailing after him,” he said softly. “At his age I’d all the responsibilities of a grown man, but this seems to have happened in the blink of an eye.”

  I placed my hand over his, thinking exactly the same. While I’d been tending to James in Albany, Alexander himself had been unwell, though he hadn’t confessed it to me because he hadn’t wanted me to worry. I was worrying now, however. He’d an old ailment of the kidneys, born from his days sleeping out of doors in the cold as a soldier, that often plagued him in the fall. It wasn’t so bad that he’d paused in his work; instead in fact he’d lately burdened himself further, to the point that I wondered if at last he’d accepted more responsibilities than he could reasonably answer.

  Although he still stood straight as a ramrod, lean and handsome and younger in appearance then most men his age, I also thought he seemed more preoccupied, more closeted away in his own thoughts. In the past, he’d always shared his worries with me, but now I felt there were things he was holding back, things he wasn’t confiding as he once would have done, and it saddened me.

  Thus one year ended, and another began. I’d always liked the New Year. When I’d been a girl, there had been a large party at The Pastures and all of us children had been permitted to stay downstairs until midnight. Then, as the tall clock in the parlor chimed twelve times, we had all trooped outside, where Papa and the other men at the party had shouted and fired their guns to chase away the old year and salute the new one. It had been wildly exciting, hopping up and down to keep warm on a cold, star-filled night as the gunshots had rung out over the snowy fields.

  Although this year we weren’t in Albany for the holiday season, I still clung to that notion of the new year bringing a new beginning. Yet although Alexander and I celebrated in Philadelphia with our family and friends and drank merry toasts to President Washington to welcome in 1792, the new year soon shed any semblance of hope or good cheer.