Somewhere in the distance came a rumble of thunder.
“I’m lost, Betsey,” he said again, his voice heavy. “I don’t know any longer what is right, and what isn’t.”
“But you do know, my love,” I said softly. “You always have. Do what you believe, and it will be right.”
Finally he nodded, accepting. He didn’t tell me what he’d decided, and I didn’t ask. He was my husband, and that was enough.
* * *
Several days later, I was sitting in the backyard, half-listening to my two youngest boys squabbled over a ball. The day was already warm, but at least out of doors there was a shimmer of a breeze coming from the harbor.
The back door to the hall stood open, a clear passage through the house, and I heard frantic rapping on the front door. I frowned, wondering who could be so desperate at this hour, and as soon as the servant opened the door, my sister flew inside, demanding to see me.
“I’m here, Angelica,” I called, and she ran toward me.
“Where is Hamilton?” she demanded, breathless and agitated. “When did you see him last?”
“When he left for his office after breakfast.” Her wild manner had upset my boys, and I rose and put my arms around their shoulders to give them a reassuring pat. “Here, you two, go find Johanna in the house, and leave me with your aunt.”
John trotted dutifully inside, but James, being older, hung back. “Is there something wrong with Papa?”
“No, dear, not at all,” Angelica said with forced cheerfulness. “Go on now, so I might speak with your mamma.”
Reluctantly he left, and as soon as he disappeared inside Angelica seized my arm.
“This morning John told me that he might not be back home to dine,” she said, “that he’d an appointment to keep in Hamilton’s company. I gave it no further thought, until I found a crumpled note from Hamilton that John had left on his washstand, asking him to accompany him to the interview at Mr. Monroe’s lodgings at ten.”
“An interview?” I repeated, my own dread growing by the instant. The only time that gentlemen spoke of interviews was when they were planning a duel. Of course, he would have asked Mr. Church, experienced in dueling, to be his second. Mr. Church’s dueling pistols were infamous, London-made works of the gunsmith’s art with long barrels and hair triggers, pistols that had already shot several men. The child in my womb quaked with fear, and I pressed my hand over my belly to calm it. “Oh, Angelica, he couldn’t mean to do that!”
“The case with John’s pistols was gone from top of the tall chest, where he keeps them safe from the children,” my sister said. “We must stop them, Eliza.”
“If they met at ten, it’s already too late.” My knees gave way beneath me and I sank back into my chair and buried my face in my hands. I remembered the last conversation Alexander and I had had about Mr. Monroe. Had I unwittingly advised him to fight a duel? Was he even now lying wounded, or worse?
What had he done? What had I done?
I heard the door open again, and Alexander’s voice. I looked up as relief swept over me. He was with Mr. Church, and he wasn’t wounded and he wasn’t dead, but it was clear that his mood was dark indeed.
“Thank God, you’re unharmed!” Angelica cried, hurrying to the two men as I was still too overcome to do.
“Of course we’re unharmed, my dear,” Mr. Church said. “Hamilton asked me here for a glass of brandy, and I accepted.”
All I saw was my husband. “You went to challenge Mr. Monroe, didn’t you?” I asked unsteadily. “That’s where you went this morning, wasn’t it?”
“Nothing came of it,” he said, his voice still taut with anger. “There was no need for you to worry.”
Mr. Church waved a single hand dismissively through the air, as if that alone were enough to banish the tension among us.
“Words were exchanged, grievances acknowledged, moderation prevailed, and the peace was preserved,” he said, purposefully bland. “There’s nothing left to discuss.”
So they had gone there prepared for a duel, which hadn’t happened. My heart was still beating too painfully fast from what could have happened for me to be relieved.
I turned back to my husband. “Alexander?”
“It’s done,” he said. “We shall speak of it no further.”
He kept his word, and we never did.
* * *
Whatever had occurred—and what hadn’t—between my husband and Mr. Monroe was enough to inspire Alexander to make an important decision. He would cease the back-and-forth sniping in the press with James Callender. Instead, he would tell the entire story of these infamous letters himself, in a pamphlet that he would write and publish at his own expense. He vowed that he would omit nothing, and therefore leave nothing for Callender or Mr. Monroe or anyone else to misconstrue or misinterpret in the future. Honesty and truth, always among my husband’s most sterling qualities, would finally put an end to this entire wretched conspiracy against him.
Two days later, Alexander left before dawn for Philadelphia to tend to some older business connected with the bank. Although I was always sorry to see him leave, I was to a certain extent relieved. President Adams was once again in Massachusetts, Congress was not in session, and Mr. Monroe was safely away from Philadelphia and visiting his wife’s family here in New York. There was no one left in the capital to vex my husband, and I prayed that a week buried in the ledgers and records of the bank would help clear his head. While he was away, he was also determined to write his pamphlet. I applauded his resolve, and wished him well.
While he was away, I read the latest reply from James Callender in response to the last letter from my husband. Since Callender’s work was first published in a Philadelphia newspaper, The Merchants’ Daily Advertiser. I’m sure Alexander took note of this specimen of Democratic-Republican rubbish before I, though his letters to me made no mention of it. He would, however, have been properly gratified to have witnessed my indignant response, and the disdain with which I removed the newspaper from our home and deposited it with Mr. Church, who’d expressed a desire to read it as well.
It was particularly infuriating to me to think how this whole sorry spectacle, calculated and contrived by a cabal of Democratic-Republican scoundrels to discredit my beloved husband, must also have amused and entertained most of our fellow citizens during this long summer. According to Angelica, it had sadly become the favorite topic of gossip at her parties, no matter how much she tried to dispel it.
It was all the more reason for Alexander’s pamphlet. By telling his side of the tale, he was convinced that he could rely on the wise eye of the public to see truth from lies—a most noble belief held by an equally noble man.
Yet to my disgust, it was exactly that belief that Callender chose to skewer in his own pathetic attempt at a closing argument:
Because it is your intention, shortly to place the matter more precisely before the public. You are right, for the public have at present some unlucky doubts. They have long known you as an eminent and able statesman. They will be highly gratified by seeing you exhibited in the novel character of a lover.
As angry as I was to read this, I believed, as did my husband, that soon the shining truth would prove to the rest of the world who truly had sinned, and who had been sinned against.
And soon, very soon, it did exactly that.
* * *
I gave birth to another son, our fifth boy, on August 4, 1797, five days before my own fortieth birthday. We named him William Stephen Hamilton, a fine, fulsome name in honor of two of his uncles. Alexander and I together relished anew that sweetly indescribable love for a newborn, and the wonder that such a charming little creature had been created through God’s grace, and our love. I never tired of watching my husband care for our children, cradling each one in his arms with such unabashed devotion that it always brought tears to my eyes.
I was still in this blissful state some two weeks after William’s birth when Alexander joined me in
the parlor. To grant me a respite, Angelica had taken our older children with her for the day, and except for little William and the servants, Alexander and I were as alone in our house as we ever were. He’d a stack of pages in his hands, and I smiled in expectation.
“Is that your pamphlet?” I asked, patting the cushion on the sofa in invitation. “You cannot know how eager I am to read it at last.”
I was surprised that he didn’t smile in return. In fact he was unusually solemn, continuing to hold the manuscript.
“It’s already been printed, and is with the binder now,” he said. “I’ve just had my original pages returned to me.”
“It’s a good thing it’s at the binder,” I said, “considering you’ve already placed advertisements for its sale.”
Yet still he hesitated. “I wished for you to be recovered from William’s birth before you read it,” he said. “I didn’t wish to cause you any mishap.”
“I’ve never been so fragile as that, Alexander,” I said, smiling warmly at his solicitude. “If I’ve been strong enough to read Callender’s vile letters, I’m more than strong enough to read your rebuttal.”
At last he handed me the manuscript.
“Everything I have written here,” he said slowly, “adheres to the most absolute truth, no matter how painful.”
“Painful for Callender and that villain Mr. Monroe,” I said, glancing at the first page. “What a splendid title! Observations on Certain Documents Contained in N. V & VI of ‘The History of the United States for the Year 1796,’ In Which the Charge of Speculation Against Alexander Hamilton, Late Secretary of the Treasury, Is Fully Refuted. Written by Himself.’ That sets it all out, doesn’t it?”
“Almost,” he said, and cleared his throat. “And recall, my dearest wife, that I love you above all others, and always have.”
“As I love you, too,” I said, smiling. His obvious nervousness as I began to read touched me; clearly this work was so important to him that he seemed almost desperate for my approval. He needn’t have worried. I always enjoyed his writing, the concise beauty of his sentences and the clarity and brilliance that showed in every word. The best way to alleviate his anxiety would be to read, and thus I began.
His argument began much as I expected it would, linking the Democratic-Republicans to the Jacobins, as was entirely accurate. Then he systematically began to explain and refute every calumny and slander that had been made against him, complete with affidavits and other letters for reference.
I will not paraphrase or copy the entire document here, for surely over time it has unfairly become the most widely read of any of my husband’s writings, and a certain line the most infamous. It is also known by a far shorter name now—The Reynolds Pamphlet—and one that proves that prurience will always sell. Yet on that day, unlike all later readers, I was completely unprepared for what it contained.
The charge against me is a connection with one James Reynolds for purpose of improper pecuniary speculation. My real crime an amorous connection with his wife, for a considerable time with his privity and connivance . . .
I caught my breath as if I’d been struck. His real crime . . . an amorous connection. . . . I could scarcely comprehend the words I was reading. I resisted the impulse to push away the pages, realizing too late that I did not want to learn what was contained in this writing. But having started, I had to continue.
Some time in the summer of the year 1791, a woman called at my house in the city of Philadelphia, and asked to speak with me in private....
I forced myself not to rush, to read each word with care, and to overlook nothing.
She told me the street and the number of the house where she lodged. In the evening, I put a bank-bill in my pocket and went to the house. I inquired for Mrs. Reynolds and was shewn up stairs, at the head of which she met me and conducted me into a bed room. I took the bill out of my pocket and gave it to her. Some conversation ensued from which it was quickly apparent that other than pecuniary consolation would be acceptable....
Without realizing it, I’d crumpled the edge of the page, my fingers had been holding it that tightly.
After this, I had frequent meetings with her, most of them at my own house; Mrs. Hamilton and her children being absent on a visit to her father . . . .
The words were swimming before my eyes, and I had to blink for them to make sense.
My intercourse with Mrs. Reynolds continued. . . .
I paused as the meaning of the words sank in: nearly a year, then, that this betrayal had gone on.
This confession is not made without a blush. I cannot be the apologist of any vice because the ardour of passion may have made it mine. I can never cease to condemn myself for the pang, which I may inflict in a bosom eminently entitled to all my gratitude, fidelity, and love. But that bosom will approve, that even at so great an expence, I should effectively wipe away a more serious stain from a name, which it cherishes with no less elevation than tenderness. . . .
I compelled myself to read to the very last word. I hadn’t looked at Alexander once from the time I’d begun, and I didn’t now that I’d finished.
I was shaking with grief. I could scarcely breathe from the pain of it.
“Betsey,” he said softly. Somehow he was next to me, his voice anguished.
I pushed myself away from him as I staggered to my feet. I let the pages drop to the floor, where they scattered on the carpet.
I rushed from the parlor, up the stairs, and into the room where little William lay sleeping. I gathered his tiny body from his cradle and held him close, seeking comfort in a love I could trust.
“My dearest,” Alexander said behind me.
I didn’t turn, and I didn’t reply. Swiftly I began gathering a few of the baby’s things to take with me.
“Betsey, please.” He stood in the doorway, blocking my way. “I know I’ve no right to ask your forgiveness, yet . . .”
“Don’t,” I said sharply. The baby in my arms wailed mournfully, and at last I began to cry, too, hot tears of mortification and shame and hurt drawn straight from my heart. “Let me pass. Please let me pass.”
At last he stepped aside from the doorway.
I slipped past him, and hurried down the stairs and away from the house, and from him.
CHAPTER 21
New York City, New York
August 1797
The distance between our house and the Churches’ on Robinson Street was not far, and I had walked it countless times before without much thought. But on this day I was only a fortnight removed from childbed, and the child I’d carried for nine months in my womb was now squalling in my arms. The afternoon was hot, and in my haste to leave I’d neglected to pause for a hat, so the sun was full in my face. But most of all, I carried upon my shoulders the impossibly heavy weight of my husband’s betrayal, and by the time that I climbed the white stone steps to my sister’s house, I was gasping for breath. When the footman opened the door, I stumbled inside, my tear-filled eyes slow to adjust after the bright sun, and the servant caught my arm to support me and the child.
“Eliza!” exclaimed my sister, hurrying into the hall to me. “What is wrong? What has happened?”
“It’s Alexander,” I said, my voice choked with fresh tears. “Oh, Angelica, what he did, what he has done! I would never have thought him capable of such a thing. How could he have done this to me, to us, to our children!”
Angelica’s expression softened with pity. “He has finally told you, then.”
“You knew, too?” I cried. “How is it that everyone knew of this except for me?”
“Not everyone,” she said, striving to calm me as she took my arm. “Come upstairs, and we shall talk. Let’s give little William to Agnes to hold, and I’ll help you the rest of the way.”
Her children’s nursery maid was standing beside her, and with a mixture of reluctance and relief I handed my child into her capable arms. Now I noticed that there were other servants here as well, hovering to o
ne side, and that her two daughters, Kitty and Elizabeth, and my own Angelica were watching, wide-eyed and uncertain, from the doorway to the parlor. For their sake, I tried to gulp back my sobs, and failed.
Angelica slipped her arm around my waist. “Come upstairs to my room with me, my dear,” she said gently. “We’ll have a glass of lemonade, and we’ll talk.”
I sagged against her and let her lead me up the stairs to her bedchamber. It was cooler in here, with this corner of the house shaded by trees, and the windows thrown open and the shades drawn against the afternoon sun. I dropped onto the sofa in her bedchamber and buried my face in my hands, and she sat beside me, her arm around me. She said nothing, but let me cry, and cry I did, until my handkerchief was sodden and my eyes burned, yet still more tears came, drawn straight from the break in my heart.
A servant entered with a tray with a pitcher of lemonade, two glasses, and a plate of biscuits, as if I were making an ordinary call. Angelica murmured something to the servant, who curtseyed and left us again.
“I sent word to Hamilton that you and William are safe with me,” she said quietly. “I didn’t want him to worry.”
I sat upright with a shuddering sob. “What does he care?”
“He cares, Eliza,” she said, carefully smoothing strands of my tear-soaked hair away from my forehead. “No matter what you think at this moment, he loves you, and he always will.”
I, Eliza Hamilton Page 44