I felt a little guilty when, the next morning, Aunt Gertrude was bleary-eyed at a hurried breakfast. And I was nearly too nervous to eat, because it was time to meet George Washington.
* * *
THE BUSTLING HEADQUARTERS at Ford Mansion was only a quarter mile away. Unfortunately, there was so much snow that even with soldiers piling it into mountains on either side of the road, snowshoes were required. Which meant that we were disheveled and a little out of breath when we finally reached the large white house atop the hill where Washington’s tall, powerful bodyguards demanded that we give the secret watchword.
Which, fortunately, we knew.
Aunt Gertrude was a little sour at being suspected, considering that she came often to visit Mrs. Washington and the guards knew her well. “I assure you that there aren’t any deadly knitting needles in my basket.”
But Angelica was thrilled, or at least a little flattered, by their zealotry. “Well, I think it was very handsomely done, gentlemen. After all, women can be dangerous, too, and important to the entire American enterprise. Our revolution is already remaking everyone’s way of looking at the world, and you are very forward-thinking fellows.”
With a blush at her compliment, the guards allowed us entrance to the house, where we tromped up the stairs to the door. We would’ve liked a moment to straighten our hair and our ribbons and make ourselves presentable. Which was why, I suppose, we were so startled when the icy door flung open, and a short, plump little woman with dark brown eyes appeared in the doorway.
Given her plain white cap, brown homespun gown, and bespeckled apron, I might have been forgiven for having confused her with the housekeeper. But whence from her lips fell a soft southern drawl, I knew better. “Why, come in from the cold,” said Martha Washington, drawing us into the comfortable circle of chairs before the fire.
Though she was nearly fifty, and a bit snowy haired, she was still handsome, albeit very plainly dressed for such a grand lady as I considered her. One of her Negro servants fetched us a steaming pot of sassafras tea while I presented to Mrs. Washington a little gift of lace cuffs.
“Oh, these are so well made,” she said. “Very fine work. I shall treasure them.” But no sooner had she thanked me than did she return to knitting a pair of socks. “A clean, dry sock is a luxury for the soldiers. There’s always so much to be done for them . . .”
“All the more difficult with everyone so crowded together,” Aunt Gertrude said, her eyes lifting to the cadre of young officers coming in and out with papers and satchels.
Mrs. Washington nodded, her hands never stopping at their work. “The general likes to keep here in this house his little military family. His aides all bunk together. If I go a day without mending something for one of them, I’m astonished, but I can scarcely complain, given how hard they labor.”
“I’d be happy to be put to work,” I said, reaching for a basket of mending by her feet.
“Well, aren’t you a sweet girl,” Mrs. Washington replied. “But I cannot imagine you came to camp for a life of drudgery. I daresay a number of gentlemen will be glad for your company, my dear girls. Amongst them, colonels McHenry, Tilghman, Harrison, and Hamilton, who—”
She was interrupted by the sound of chairs scraping on the floorboards as my sister and aunt quickly rose to their feet. Kitty and I were slower to stand, and then we saw the tall Virginian who commanded our attention—and our armies.
At the sight of George Washington in full uniform, wearing tall black riding boots and a black cape, my fingers went nervously to straighten my tousled, half-frozen hair.
Meanwhile Kitty, who’d once requested—and received—a lock of the great man’s hair as a token, clutched at the pendant that held it, her usual sophisticated demeanor all aflutter. I would never have been so bold as to ask for a lock of the man’s hair, so I had nothing to clutch but my sister’s hand.
Washington bowed to us and, upon a curtsy, I retrieved from my cloak and delivered into his hand a letter of introduction from my father. But he didn’t open it. “You need no introduction, Miss Schuyler,” Washington said, glancing at Angelica, who remained, as was her way, perfectly composed. “In the short time she’s been with us, the enchanting Mrs. Carter has already painted such a good portrait of her sensible and saintly sister that there is not an officer amongst us who would not know Elizabeth Schuyler on sight.”
Hearing him say my name, I flushed and went speechless. Not even Angelica’s encouraging squeeze of my hand could seem to make my tongue untie itself. Finally, I managed to murmur, “We’re glad to have arrived safely, Your Excellency.”
If Washington noticed we were swooning from the excitement of his presence, he didn’t let on. “T’was wonderful of you to have braved the journey. Can I expect the pleasure of seeing your father soon? Schuyler’s perfect knowledge of the resources of the country, his good temper, and his sound military sense make me wish, above all things, that he would join us here.”
To hear Washington speak so warmly of my father emboldened me. “I’m sure Papa would hasten forth at your summons, Your Excellency.”
Papa had refused to take up his old command, but I wondered if Washington’s public show of confidence would change his mind. And I was delighted when Washington gave a slight smile that didn’t show his teeth. “I shall give some thought as to how to bring your father to my side. In the meantime, young ladies, we shall expect your company at the forthcoming dance assembly. When the officers learned that we were to have a visit from such toast-worthy belles, they pooled together the funds to host a proper winter’s ball, complete with a French dance master. You must attend. I insist.”
Chapter Seven
I was prepossessed in favor of this young lady the moment I saw her. A brunette with the most good natured lively dark eyes I ever saw, which threw a beam of good temper and benevolence over her whole countenance. She was the Finest Tempered Girl in the World.
—JOURNAL OF TENCH TILGHMAN
I COULDN’T RESIST A direct order from the commander in chief, and so I spent at least half a day with Kitty and Angelica in preparation, curling hair, lacing stays, and deciding between silk heeled shoes. And when Angelica powdered my bosom with some rice powder sent especially to me as a gift by Mrs. Washington, I began to believe that a project had been made of me.
“Something’s amiss,” Kitty said, appraising me where I stood in a Robe à la Polonaise of ivory silk brocade with sprays of autumn flowers in shades of gold and brown and rose.
It was another gift, this one from Angelica, whose husband was capable of obtaining the most current fashions from overseas without having to pay an unpatriotic tax on it. She held a rope of my dark hair at my nape with one hand. “It’s only that Betsy’s throat is bare, without anything shiny to draw the eye or entice a man to nibble.”
There was no use in pretending to be scandalized by my sister, who’d always said such things. But still, I felt obliged to remark, “That doesn’t sound pleasant.”
“Au contraire, you impossible girl,” Angelica said. “Must I extol to you the pleasures of the marriage bed to keep you from becoming a spinster?” She fastened upon my neck a number of necklaces, all of which seemed too ostentatious for words, and I refused everything but a simple black ribbon. “I suppose that will have to do,” she said.
Then we were off in the sleigh!
Despite the scant offerings of eatables and drinkables, it was, as General Washington promised, a proper winter ball inside a little tavern turned military storehouse on the green, its windows etched with frost. The second floor was positively transformed, illuminated by the warm glow of at least a hundred candles on crossbeams. And amidst the notes of flute, violin, and harpsichord, mingled a motley assemblage of about sixty gentlemen and officers.
Our Americans in buff and blue, Prussian adventurers like Baron von Steuben with medals glittering on their chests, and French officers in perfectly tailored coats with gold braids at the shoulders. And, to Kitt
y’s great satisfaction, not a single lobsterback in sight.
“You forgot your fan,” Angelica scolded me.
“It’s too cold for a fan,” I said, which made both my companions laugh.
“Oh Betsy,” Kitty said, her green eyes glittering with worldly amusement. “This is what comes of socializing only with boys of the Blues in Albany. Without a fan, how are you to convey a message like stay away or come hither?”
A little vexed at her superior tone—at both of them fussing at me—I replied, “Why I suppose I would just say the words.”
Angelica’s eyes widened with delight. “Betsy has learned to bite!”
As there were only sixteen ladies in attendance, every male gaze in the room turned our way, and Angelica gave the slow wave of her fan that said, I am married.
Not that it discouraged them.
Kitty’s daring gown with bold red-and-white stripes ought to have made her the belle of the ball. But it was my sister, in pink silk and cream-fringed trim, who reigned over the dance hall, and we attended her like faithful handmaidens. Good thing, too, because her natural comfort in formal social outings allowed her to artfully plead thirst as a way to steer us away from the crowd of men who descended.
In the breathing space at the punch bowl, Angelica motioned with her chin toward her knot of admirers in tight buff breeches and decidedly smart dress uniforms, and I recognized a few of them from headquarters as Washington’s closest aides. “They’ll claim to be starved for female attention,” she said. “But I assure you, there’s been such a parade of debutantes come to camp to land a husband that they have learned to tumble from haystacks with the dairymaids straight into the arms of gentlemen’s daughters.”
As she took up a crystal glass of rum punch, Kitty said, “You must mean Colonel Hamilton.”
My sister’s lips quirked up at the corner. “Speak of the devil and he shall appear.”
Moving with crisp military bearing, his reddish-brown hair pulled smartly back in a black ribbon, an officer I assumed must be Hamilton made straight for us, and Kitty pleaded, “My dear Schuyler sisters, rescue me.”
“Is he a rake?” I asked, wondering why she should need rescue.
“Oh, he’s naughty good fun and an excellent officer,” Kitty replied, swiftly finishing her punch as Hamilton’s heeled shoes closed the distance. “But he’s been trying to seduce me since his school days when my father let him stay with us. And he’s so relentless I fear I may foolishly give in.”
Angelica arched a mischievous brow. “Would it really be so foolish?”
“Quite,” Kitty hurriedly replied. “His soldiers call him the Little Lion, but he’s more of a ginger tomcat. He wrote me that victory will remove the obstacles in the way of matrimony, but I doubt I’m the only lady to whom he has pleaded but the war . . .”
A moment later, Hamilton was before us with a gallant bow, his eyes twinkling with mischief. And when he spoke, it was with the slightest accent—one I couldn’t place. “Ladies, unless my eyes deceive me, I find myself in the presence of unearthly creatures.” With that, he reached to kiss my sister’s hand, and she allowed it. “The Divine Mrs. Carter. You are a vision, as always. Will your husband join us this evening?”
My sister’s dark eyes flashed with regal acknowledgment, her head tilting in just the right way to make her jewels sparkle. “I’m afraid Mr. Carter is away on some business for the army.”
“I regret to hear it,” Hamilton replied in a way that made it seem he did not regret it at all. “We shall do our best to compensate for his absence.”
Hamilton then reached for Kitty’s gloved hand, and a spark seemed to pass between them. “Miss Livingston, my very own Game Goddess.”
“By what right do you claim me, sir?” Kitty asked.
“By right of long familiarity and friendship. You’ve little idea the fright I was thrown into when hearing of you and your sisters having to fend off the British at Liberty Hall with nothing but your wits.”
“You make it sound as if we were unarmed.” Kitty smirked with lips that formed a perfect cupid’s bow. “I take offense.”
He smiled, and I did, too, enjoying their banter. “I would never wish to imply such a thing, Miss Livingston. Only a fool underestimates the petticoat patriots amongst us. And who knows better than I do that your wits are extremely sharp and cutting?”
They both laughed, but I realized something was there, between them—something with an edge to it.
Finally, Hamilton turned his attention to me. “Who is this autumnal angel that completes your heavenly trio?”
Angelica made the introduction. “I present my sister, Elizabeth Schuyler.”
At hearing my name, Hamilton dramatically pressed his palm to his chest. “Be still my heart. At long last, I make the acquaintance of the Finest Tempered Girl in the World.”
I wilted, mortified, my throat bobbing under the black ribbon fastened round my neck, wondering if Colonel Tilghman had told everyone the embarrassing story.
“Your reputation precedes you, Miss Schuyler.”
“As does yours, Colonel Hamilton,” I replied.
“Oh, does it?” Hamilton leaned in, intensely curious.
There followed a painful moment of silence in which I realized that I could not very well tell him that we’d been gossiping about him. Fortunately, Kitty stepped into the breach. “Oh, you know it does, Colonel Hamilton, you vain creature. Is there anyone who doesn’t know how you covered yourself in glory in the artillery?”
“Or who doesn’t appreciate the eloquence of your pen?” Angelica chimed in. “‘The sacred rights of mankind are not to be rummaged for, among old parchments, or musty records. They are written, as with a sunbeam, in the whole volume of human nature and can never be erased or obscured by mortal power.’ ”
I wasn’t surprised Angelica could quote him; she read political pamphlets with as much eagerness as Peggy read romantic French novels. But Hamilton did seem surprised and grinned, almost modestly, at her recitation.
Meanwhile General Washington, clad in black velvet, was preparing to lead a minuet. And two bold French officers interrupted to ask Kitty and Angelica to dance. My sister gave an apologetic look before abandoning us. And as both of the beauties escaped his grasp at once, Hamilton hid his disappointment behind a veneer of politeness. Extending a hand to me that displayed a glimpse of a fine lace cuff beneath his officer’s coat, he asked, “Shall we, Miss Schuyler?”
“Dance?” I asked, a little flustered.
“You do not dance?”
“I do, of course.”
“Then please, dance with me. As Miss Livingston is perverse enough to pretend she finds that French officer more appealing tonight, I am in need of diversion.”
It was not the most flattering offer to dance I’d ever received, but the young aide-de-camp scarcely waited for my assent before leading me to the floor where pairs of heeled and buckled shoes spun upon the whorled knots of the rough-hewn pine floor. And as Hamilton led me through the formal steps and bows, his fingers grasped mine just a fraction more tightly than they ought to have.
I wished that didn’t intrigue me, because I had the strong notion it was intended for Kitty’s notice, not mine. Hamilton was a decidedly handsome man. One who seemed to know precisely what he was about. And despite the gossip about his tumbling dairymaids, he was, with me, a proper gentleman.
As the center of attention, General Washington made an imposing presence—having executed so perfect a minuet that when it concluded the crowd felt moved to applaud.
After which, Hamilton asked, “Wherever did you learn to dance so well, Miss Schuyler?”
I told him about our New Netherland children’s troops and the dances in our hall. “Angelica led the Blues—but my little brothers were sorted into the Greens. I’m afraid it remains a rivalry in our family to this day.”
“You paint a picture of a happy family.” A wistfulness crept into Hamilton’s expression. “A happy child
hood.”
Glancing at my sister across the room, surrounded by a bevy of men vying for her attention, I said, “Very happy.”
I didn’t expect this to evoke sadness behind his eyes.
“Have you had refreshments, yet, Miss Schuyler? You must be parched.” With that, he led me back to the punch table. It was the polite way of marooning a lady before going in search of better quarry, so I was surprised when he not only lingered, but also filled cups for us both and guided us to a set of chairs. “Dare I hope that you’ve come to Morristown for a reunion with a certain friend of mine?”
I blinked. “If you know the Marquis de Lafayette, I should like to see him again.”
“Know him? I consider him as a brother.” Hamilton’s smile turned wry as he sat beside me. “Good thing, though, that the marquis is away on a mission to France or I would lose another charming lady to a Frenchman’s allure. Is there, perhaps, some other friend of mine you pine to see?”
While a viola and a violin sang brightly over the din, I took a swallow of punch, not fathoming the direction of his question. “Are you matchmaking, sir?”
“Perhaps.”
That was the other polite way of marooning a lady to go in search of better quarry, but I wouldn’t mind if it meant a reunion with an old friend. One whose letters I’d waited upon in vain. “Well, I hoped to see Major Monroe, but I haven’t spotted him.”
Hamilton’s auburn eyebrows raised with what appeared to be sobering surprise. “James Monroe? Well, no doubt my friend Monroe would blush and stammer his way through countless snowdrifts to pay court to you, but I’m afraid he’s gone.”
The word struck me hard, like a blow. “Gone?”
The previous winter in Valley Forge had been disastrous for the American army, many perishing of disease and exposure. That Monroe might have died there or upon a battlefield filled me with sorrow that I hadn’t asked after him sooner.
My Dear Hamilton Page 8