“Do you know what he has done, Angelica?” I asked tremulously. “Has he told you and Mr. Church?”
“Why don’t you tell me instead,” she said. “That is, if you can.”
I nodded, steeling myself. “He has written a pamphlet in which he confesses to having had an—an amorous connection—six years ago!—in Philadelphia with some coarse, wanton woman named Maria Reynolds.”
Oh, how I hated saying even her name aloud, and from anger and shame I broke off, looking down at my crumpled handkerchief.
“My poor, dear sister,” murmured Angelica. “How dreadful for you to learn of it like that.”
“I remember when she came to our house seeking his assistance,” I said, the painful words coming fast now that I’d begun. “I thought nothing of it and yet he—he went to her rooms later that night, and she offered herself to him, and he—they did what they did, and then he came home to me. And I didn’t know, Angelica. I didn’t realize any of it was happening.”
“But how could you, sweet?” she asked. “You’d no reason to suspect him, nor reason for distrust.”
My eyes burned with fresh tears. “That was when James was so sick and I took him to Albany, and while I was worrying over our child, he—Alexander—was bringing this woman into our home, into our own bed, many times.”
Angelica drew in her breath. “He wrote that in the pamphlet, too?”
“He did,” I said, my voice squeaking with emotion. “He says that he continued to—to be with her for nearly a year, and even paid her husband—her husband!—for the privilege of continuing with her, and keeping the secret.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing it were as easy to blot out the tawdry words I’d read. “There were other men who knew of it, too, including Mr. Monroe, who told that hateful man Callender. I understand that it is better for the world to know the truth, that Alexander wasn’t compromising his—his integrity as the secretary. He was just compromising . . .” I broke into fresh sobs. “. . . our marriage.”
I lowered my head, overwhelmed. I heard the clink of the silver pitcher against the edge of a glass, and then Angelica was pressing that glass into my hand.
“Drink this,” she ordered, and I did, so broken by despair that I was as obedient as any of our children. The lemonade was sweet with sugar and orange-water, with the bite of mint: my sister’s own recipe. From that day onward, I could never bring myself to drink it again.
“None of this is your fault, Eliza,” Angelica insisted. “I know you will somehow blame yourself, because that is how you are, but it isn’t. Not one bit.”
“But why else would he have gone to her?” I asked miserably. “I’ve always loved him with all my heart, but if that wasn’t—”
“Hush,” she said, taking my hand in hers. “It’s always the case that evil will do what it can to corrupt goodness, and break and reduce a noble spirit to its own base level.”
“The Democratic-Republicans,” I said, my bitterness undisguised. I couldn’t forgive these fine gentlemen, nor did I wish to. “Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Burr, and especially Mr. Monroe.”
“Exactly,” Angelica said. “Your Hamilton is known for his generous spirit to those in need, especially to women in difficult circumstances. One of his finest qualities became a weakness to be exploited by his enemies.”
“They would do that to him,” I said slowly, remembering how often these same enemies had targeted him before, and how he’d gone before Congress not once, but twice, to defend himself. “Alexander is always kindness itself. No one in need has ever been turned from our door.”
“Well, then, there you are,” Angelica said with an emphatic nod. “It’s clear enough that this slatternly creature was sent by Hamilton’s enemies to seduce him into a scandal, with the hope that it would destroy him. But they did not succeed, did they? It didn’t harm him six years ago, and it won’t now, not so long as his friends stand by him.”
“But even if they’d contrived this trap for him, Angelica, he didn’t have to agree to it,” I said, the raw pain bubbling back up inside me.
Angelica sighed deeply, her fingers squeezing around mine as she stared at the floor before her.
“There are things that men—even the best of men—do that make no sense,” she said finally. “As much as I adore your Hamilton, I cannot begin to say why he would betray you for the novelty of this Reynolds strumpet. And yet he did.”
“He did,” I echoed forlornly. Even having read Alexander’s words, even repeating them to my sister, I could still hardly accept this new truth about the one man I’d always loved.
“Yes.” She was gazing past me, her dark eyes wide but unseeing. “Have you ever thought how different our lives would have been if there hadn’t been a war, Eliza? Most likely we would have both married some dull Dutchmen, and led dull respectable lives within sight of the North River.”
“Not you,” I said through my sniffles. “You could never have been content with such a life.”
“I would have had no choice,” she mused, “and neither would you. Think of it, Eliza. If it weren’t for the war, you would never have met your Hamilton, and I would never have met my John.”
“I wish I never had met him!” I said vehemently.
“Hush, you don’t mean that,” she said. “You feel that way at this moment, but it will pass. You love Hamilton and he loves you. He is the father of your children. If it weren’t for your Hamilton and my John, we wouldn’t have known the pride, the pleasure, the endless satisfactions and frustrations large and small of sharing our lives with extraordinary men. They need us, just as we need them.”
I nodded, blotting at my tears again. From the first time Alexander and I had met, he’d been the one I’d wanted, and the one I chose. And he did need me, just as I needed him; I’d never doubted that.
I wondered if Angelica were thinking the same of Mr. Church as she sat beside me, twisting and toying with the jeweled rings on her fingers.
“But then, everything in this life comes with a price, doesn’t it?” she said, and gave me a small half smile. “If daring to love such men as we have means that we must forgive them when they stray, then . . .”
She let the sentence trail off unfinished, ambiguous and puzzling.
“Angelica,” I said, turning to face her. “Has Mr. Church ever strayed?”
Her mouth curved upward, but it couldn’t be called a smile. “In truth I do not know, Eliza. London and Paris have many temptations, and he has always been a restless man.”
I nodded, and asked no more. Even between Angelica and me, there were lines that could not be crossed.
The tall clock in the hall chimed the hour: five o’clock. From downstairs I heard William crying, fretting, and I felt the answering twinge in my breasts, heavy and aching with milk.
“I must go to the baby,” I said, beginning to rise, but Angelica placed her hand on my arm to stop me.
“You know you have a place with us as long as you require it,” she said. “Tonight, a week, a month. Stay here until you know your heart.”
* * *
I stayed the night in my sister’s house. I slept but little, my thoughts still too much distressed by my husband’s revelations. The next morning William roused me early, and to keep from waking the rest of the house, I took him with me into the garden. I found a bench beneath a tree and nursed him, relishing the quiet of the new day. Sun slanted bright over the brick wall, and dewdrops hung like diamonds in the lawn. My head ached and my eyes were swollen from weeping, but at least here, with my little son at my breast, I’d some semblance of peace.
Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t hear Alexander enter the garden until he was standing directly before me, his hat in his hand. Despite the early hour, he was neatly dressed and clean-shaven, but from the shadows beneath his eyes, I knew he’d slept no better than I. We’d often been apart on account of his business and other journeys, but last night had been the first in our marriage when we’d been in the same city, yet had
not slept together beneath the same roof.
I watched him warily, and I said nothing by way of greeting, leaving it for him to speak first. I hadn’t wanted him here, not yet, and I felt almost trapped by his presence.
“Good day, madam.” He bowed deeply. “How is your health this morning?”
“Not as it should be, Colonel,” I answered. If he wished to keep that distance of formality between us, then so would I. “I slept ill, having received grievous news yesterday.”
“I am sorry, deeply sorry, for that,” he said, “For that, and for everything else. I’ve no right so much as to beg for your forgiveness.”
His entire expression and posture showed his sorrow and regret, but it wasn’t enough, not after what he’d done. I didn’t answer, leaving the emptiness to be filled by the chattering of the birds in the tree overhead and the little mewling sound of contentment from our son at my breast.
He nodded as if I’d answered, and I suppose by my silence I had.
“I have taken the liberty of booking passage for you and our daughter to Albany on tomorrow’s sloop,” he said. “I guessed that you would wish to be away from town with your parents when the pamphlet is published, and that you would find comfort in having our daughter with you.”
I understood that he hadn’t included our daughter simply for my comfort, but to remove her as well from the shameful uproar that would doubtless greet the pamphlet. It was meant to be thoughtful, the consideration of a father for his daughter’s tender feelings. Yet where had that consideration and regard been six years before? What did it matter now, when the damage was already done? My eyes stung with tears, and I blinked them back.
He nodded again and cleared his throat, and I thought of how rare it was for the great Colonel Hamilton to be without words.
William had finished his meal, sated and drowsy. I wiped the last milky bubbles from his lips with the corner of his blanket and put him to my shoulder so I could pat his back. Alexander watched, his expression full of the same love and wonder that he showed toward all our children.
“Might I hold him?” he asked humbly, as if he fully expected me to refuse.
After a moment, I held the baby out to him.
“Take care,” I warned, offering him the same cloth I’d had over my shoulder. “You know how he can be after he’s been fed.”
He took little William and tucked him deftly against his chest without any concern for his fine dark silk coat. I watched as he walked the baby slowly around the yard, rocking him gently and saying the sort of soft, sweet nonsense that he always did to our infants.
He’d always been an admirable father, and in every way but one, he’d been an admirable husband, too. My heart swelled with love and anguish, a terrible combination, as I watched him with William.
At last he handed the now-sleeping baby back to me, lingering before me.
“Know that I love you more than ever, Betsey,” he said at last, his voice at once both raw and contrite. “That has never changed. You are everything to me, and I could not bear my life without you beside me. I am so sorry that I have hurt you.”
“So am I,” I said, all I’d venture, or could say. I hurt too much for more. “Good day, Colonel Hamilton.”
I do not know what he’d expected of me, but his disappointment was unmistakable as he settled his hat on his head to leave. “Good day to you, too, Eliza. I’ll come for you tomorrow to accompany you to the sloop.”
I watched him leave as he’d come, through the house, and only when I heard the servant close the door after him did I let myself cry again.
* * *
As he’d promised, Alexander saw me, our daughter, Angelica, and William on board the sloop to Albany. Our son Philip also came to bid us farewell, though I suspect more on account of his sister’s urging than anything else. My two oldest children had remained close, and it pleased me no end to see how devoted Philip, fifteen, was toward his sister, thirteen, and she toward him. He now seemed more a man than a boy, taking extra care to keep at her side, while Angelica in her bright red habit flitted about the dock like a merry little bird, eager for amusement and attention.
As I waited to board, Alexander and I said little to each other beyond what was expected regarding the weather, the wind, and the provisions. As we watched our two older children, I thought proudly of how they both showed so much promise. Now taller than his father, Philip especially today struck me as thoughtful and solemn, and no doubt a bit preoccupied with the studies he’d left behind to tend us.
But as at last we prepared to board the sloop, I realized the reason for his somber mood.
“You already told Philip about the pamphlet, didn’t you?” I said, my voice low so others would not hear. “He knows, doesn’t he?”
He nodded. “It was better he hear of it from me than others at the college.”
I grimaced. “I wish he hadn’t had to hear of it at all.”
“He’s almost a man, Eliza,” he said. “You can’t keep him sheltered from the world as if he were an infant.”
That wasn’t what I’d meant. What I’d wished was that Alexander’s own actions hadn’t demanded the need for the pamphlet in the first place. Philip had always idolized his father, and to discover that Alexander had made such an unfortunate mistake in judgment and virtue must be difficult for him to comprehend. Now, too, he would be placed in the uncomfortable position of having to defend his father against his classmates’ inevitable gibes.
But there was no time to explain that to Alexander, not with Philip and Angelica rejoining us to make our final good-byes. There was a final flurry of activity as the sailors prepared to cast off, waiting for Alexander and Philip to disembark so they could pull back the gangplank.
“You must go,” I said, my heart suddenly racing at the thought of leaving him behind. “It’s not fair to keep everyone else waiting while you tarry.”
“I’m tarrying on account of you, Eliza.” He smiled, squinting at me and into the sun beneath the brim of his hat. “Take care of yourself and my two little darlings, and carry my regards to your parents.”
I nodded, unable to find any words that might express what I felt.
If he took note of my painful silence, he did not say it.
“Good-bye, my dearest.” He swept off his hat and bent to kiss me, not on the lips, but on my cheek. Then like that he was gone and so was I, and the sloop was easing from the shore, and all that was left to me was the sight of him and Philip standing on the dock with their black cocked hats raised in salute and farewell.
* * *
When Angelica, William, and I arrived at The Pastures five days later, my parents welcomed us joyfully, believing that I’d come simply to present their latest grandchild to them. My second sister Peggy had not been well, and that, too, was another excuse for my visit to Albany.
As I had so many times before, I embraced the chance to walk in the gardens and across the fields and to be alone with my own thoughts. I’d time to let Alexander’s words settle, and to consider my sister’s wise counsel as well. I prayed for wisdom, and for understanding. Most of all, my wounded heart struggled to make sense of what had happened, and weigh it against the love I’d once believed entirely without flaw.
My husband had sinned six years ago. As I walked alone, I thought of all that had happened in those six years, of happy times and sorrowful ones that we had shared. We’d lost one child, but rejoiced at the birth of another. We’d survived an illness that had claimed a thousand other lives. He’d stepped away from the government for my sake, and we’d grown closer because of it.
That was our life together, and that was our love as well. Placed in the balance, how much did our marriage counter the “amorous encounter” with another woman? Was it sufficient to let me forgive him? Was our bond of love and trust strong enough to withstand this break, and be mended anew?
I’d only been at my parents’ house for a few days when Papa sent for me to join him in his library. As soon as
I did, I saw the pamphlet open on his desk, and my heart sank.
As can be imagined, he was furious.
“Did you know of this, Eliza?” he demanded. “Have you read it for yourself? Is that why you fled to us here, for sanctuary?”
“I have read it, yes,” I said. “Alexander shared it with me before it was published, and I was—I wasn’t happy.”
“What decent woman would be?” he exclaimed. “That any Christian husband would dare to treat his wife with so little respect and regard, and then to boast of his sin in the press!”
“He is hardly boasting,” I said, defending Alexander in spite of everything. “He simply means to present the truth, so that the public will know that he isn’t guilty of all the treasonous misdeeds that the Democratic-Republicans have accused him of committing.”
My father shook his head, and with each word thumped his fist on the desk beside the pamphlet.
“I do not know of any misdeed, Democratic or Republican or otherwise, that is more loathsome than the sin of adultery,” he thundered. “I have always regarded your husband as another son, Eliza, but to see what he has done to humiliate and betray my daughter makes me realize how misplaced my affection has been.”
“Please don’t think that way of him, Papa,” I pleaded. “It was all a plot to discredit him by Mr. Madison and the others. That woman seduced him with the intent to create a scandal.”
“No man is ever unwillingly seduced, Eliza,” he said acidly. “Your husband admits that himself. This whore parted her legs for him, and he hadn’t the strength to resist.”
I blushed, for there really was no way even I could contrive an explanation for that particular act.
“I’m sorry I ever welcomed him into this house,” my father went on. “I’m doubly sorry I trusted him as an officer and an honorable gentleman, and gave you to him as his wife.”
“Papa, please,” I said, my hands clasped tightly before me. “If I can forgive him his sin against me, then I pray that you can find it in your heart to forgive him as well.”
At once I realized what I’d just said. Was I in truth able to forgive him? Was I ready to do so?
I, Eliza Hamilton Page 45