“She’s only borrowed,” I said, hearing how weak the distinction was even as I uttered the words. “But she’s skilled and trustworthy and a great help.” And I still didn’t know what I’d do without her.
Theodosia turned a warm smile to me. “Well, you’re an exemplary hostess.”
As Theodosia was well known for her lavish entertainments in the form of French-style salons, I managed a smile at the compliment despite the discomfiture in my breast. “You’re kind to say so. I’d been uneasy that the guest list was unbalanced without unattached ladies to round out the company of the baron and his aide.”
At this, Theodosia sputtered with laughter. “Unbalanced, indeed. I daresay our baron and his very handsome aide are not the sort to have any special interest in unattached ladies.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“It isn’t by happenstance that the baron is unmarried,” Theodosia said, her voice hushing. “Don’t you know how he came to join the revolution?”
I didn’t have the slightest idea. Foreign mercenaries of all sorts had flooded to our shores to join our cause. I assumed the baron to be one of those, albeit more noble, stouthearted, and brilliant than almost all the others. Save Lafayette, of course.
Now I leaned close to hear more.
“He was ejected from the Prussian military for unsavory habits with men,” Theodosia confided. “Nearly jailed in France for the same. On account of the fact the baron was a brilliant soldier, Ben Franklin smuggled him on a ship to America before he could be arrested as a sodomite.”
This caused me to drop the half-emptied wineglass I held, spattering the table and my new woven mats with crimson.
It seemed apt since crimson was also the color of my rage that Theodosia should speak such black-hearted slander against one of my guests. About a hero of the revolution, no less. “That’s outrageous,” I hissed, thinking less of Theodosia’s character than I had before. If she could accuse a good man of the abominable vice of buggery, an accusation that could end in his hanging, I wondered at the sins in her own heart. “People have been executed for such crimes.”
“And that is outrageous,” Theodosia said, bewildering me altogether.
By the time our guests said their farewells, I was still stewing about Theodosia’s gossip. I was, in truth, so bothered by it that I feared to even confide what she’d said to my husband lest he suspect that his wife was the sort of creature who dealt in such vile whispers. But that night, before we went upstairs, I asked, “The baron is a man of high character, is he not?”
Hamilton smiled. “He has his imprudencies, but upon the whole the baron is a gentleman of real intelligence for whom I have a particular esteem. I recall that when he first came to America he could speak no English. And yet, he made himself invaluable. Upon all occasions, he conducted himself like an experienced and brave officer. Did he not impress you at dinner, my dear girl?”
The truth was, the baron had impressed me. I liked him—and his . . . companion. I even liked his dog. And most of all, I liked the salutary effect that he had upon Alexander’s mood. So I didn’t ask about the baron’s imprudencies. And I promised myself that instead of spreading Theodosia’s gossip, I’d instead bask in the success of our party.
“You enjoyed yourself tonight,” I whispered, leaning back against my husband where we paused in the doorway to watch our boy sleep in his cradle.
“I enjoyed myself very much.” Alexander’s hands rested warmly upon my shoulders. “You are a better hostess even than your mother.”
I doubted that. I didn’t have Mama’s perfect understanding of everything that must be done at the dinner table and the order in which it must be done.
But before I could express those thoughts, my husband continued, “I’ve found a precious jewel in you.” Alexander wrapped his arms around me, and then his hands drifted down to my rounding belly. “Have I told you how pleased I am that you’re giving me another child?”
“I shall never tire of hearing it,” I said.
He turned me in his arms so that he could kiss me. He tasted of wine and exhilaration as he lifted me off my sore feet. I remembered how happy he’d been at the birth of Philip, and it filled my heart with hope for the future.
But when we finally had our fill of kisses and turned down the bed, the watchman passed our window crying, “Past ten o’clock and Cranston, the fishmonger, is a vile hypocrite and an enemy of freedom.”
* * *
THE WAR HAD been won, but it had hardly brought peace.
Every day the clamor of the multitudes in the streets grew more menacing. While those streets were christened with new names—Crown Street became Liberty Street, Queen Street became Cedar, King became Pine—in coffeehouses, over bowls of grog, at the theater or wherever workmen struggled to clear away the debris and charred remains of war, we heard that no royalists should be suffered to live amongst patriots.
What right had men who, for eight years, had been destroying property, plundering, burning, killing, and inciting Indian massacres to expect kind and gentle treatment at the hands of a people they’d so deeply injured?
The next day, I heard a commotion outside the front window and looked out to see that the usual ebb and flow of carriages and well-dressed people on our wide avenue was now choked by an ill-clad mob, all pointing and laughing at some spectacle at their center. Heedlessly, I rushed onto the front stoop to catch the scent of pine tar, sharp in the air.
And there, to my dread, I saw Cranston the fishmonger—being forcibly stripped to the waist.
I shouted in alarm, but the ruffians ignored me completely as they slathered the warm tar over the poor fishmonger’s chest and back and tore open a pillow for the feathers with which to humiliate him. This was followed by placement of a cowbell round his neck, and a sign that read “LOOK YE TORY CREW, SEE WHAT GEORGE YOUR KING CAN DO.”
Fighting back nausea and defying all reason, I took hold of my skirts and waded into the crowd. “Stop this at once!”
“Get back, Mrs. Hamilton,” one of the men said, daring to lay hands on me as the crack of a whip elicited a shriek of agony from its victim. “We Sons of Liberty ask you to remember all the times your husband came so near to death at Washington’s side, and you’ll know these traitors deserve whatever they get.”
Oh, how easily any man could lay claim to the title Son of Liberty now that the war, and the danger of being hanged for it, had passed. “How do you know he’s a traitor?” I asked, pulling away from the grubby self-styled patriot. “How could anyone know without giving the man a fair trial? Why the poor tailor Hercules Mulligan was thought to be a traitor until Washington himself revealed that he’d been our spy during the occupation.”
“The fishmonger is no Hercules Mulligan,” another man called. Perhaps he was unused to being spoken to in such a fashion by a woman, because the man stared with such contempt I thought he might strike me.
Fortunately, moments later it was Alexander who had me by both arms, forcing a retreat back to our house. I hadn’t expected my husband to return from his law office so early, but oh how grateful I was to see him, even as he scolded me for being in the street. “I cannot have you risk yourself,” Alexander said, his hand pressed protectively to my belly. “Especially not in your tender condition. What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that they’re going to murder him,” I cried, shaking with impotent rage.
“They won’t,” he assured me. “They took his fish and made him bleed. That will be enough.”
I prayed my husband was right, remembering that we’d both seen worse horrors. But the lawlessness unleashed in America since our victory threatened my faith. When a Tory was acquitted by a judge in Charleston, his neighbors simply laid hold of him as soon as he left the courthouse and strung him up. I feared everything we’d struggled for was all coming undone. No sooner had we driven the king from our shores than we seemed intent on proving that we were uncivilized people who couldn’t live wi
thout a monarch to keep us from behaving as beasts.
“What kind of place is this in which to bring up our children?” I asked.
“I know, my angel,” Alexander said, holding me. “I, too, fear the revolution’s fruits will be blasted by the violence of rash or unprincipled men motivated by vindictive and selfish passions. So we must set the example and be kind to our neighbors.”
I remembered a time when I hadn’t set an example. When I’d failed to do the right thing. When I’d not given water to an injured Redcoat soldier for fear of what others might think of me. So I resolved to make up for that now and do just what my husband suggested.
That Sunday I put on my bonnet and marched, with great purpose, to Saint Paul’s Chapel. It was all that remained of the burned-down Episcopal Trinity Church, which had been a haven for Loyalists. I made a point to seat myself for prayers near to the shunned Tory families. And it was there that I first met sixteen-year-old Elizabeth Kortright, the daughter of a Loyalist merchant who’d lost much of his wealth during the war.
We exchanged a few pleasantries as I tried to ease the girl’s obvious tension, and before long she burst forth, as if the words couldn’t be held inside even before a stranger. “My father took no part in the war. He stayed because he loves New York. He shouldn’t be scorned because he also loved his king. And how can I help him rebuild his fortune if no man will have me for a wife?”
“You’re far too pretty to worry on that score,” I said reassuringly, certain that her sweet face and dignified manner would make any man overlook the sins of her father. And I invited her to tea at my house the next time I entertained ladies.
It was all I could think to do.
Fortunately, my husband did much more.
Alarmed at the violence—he set out to use the mightiest power he had at his disposal.
His pen.
And though I didn’t know it then, my husband was the best writer of the founding generation. Oh, there are those who will argue that honor goes to a certain Virginian, but he receives enough applause from the rabble without my praise, and I despise him too much to credit his talents.
It’s enough to know that it was my husband who, in this dark hour, held out so eloquently against the mob in a letter to his fellow citizens under the pseudonym Phocion, urging them to heed the principles of law and justice.
But if Alexander hoped his pen name—cleverly chosen to refer to yet another soldier from antiquity with murky parentage and noble wisdom—would shield his identity, he was wrong.
On my daily strolls with my little boy, I felt the glares of passersby. The baker was no longer content to extend me any sort of credit for bread. The delivery of fresh fruit from my father’s farm arrived smashed upon my front stoop, partially wrapped in a paper that featured an anonymous poem aimed, unquestionably, at my husband, for having become a supposed lackey for the royalists.
I burned this poem straightaway in the kitchen fire, but that didn’t stop Alexander from learning of it. And it wounded him gravely. Many of our friends, most especially Colonel Burr, advised him to let tempers cool and not risk his reputation, or our livelihood, to defend the Tories.
But my dear Hamilton wouldn’t listen.
Chapter Sixteen
September 25, 1784
New York City
A GIRL,” I SAID, gently handing over the little bundle.
And at the sight of his daughter, Alexander murmured, “My heart is at once melted into tenderness.”
“Shall we name her after your mother?” I asked, peering up at him from our bed.
He furrowed his brow and rubbed his sleeve over his joyful eyes. “Should we not name her after your mother?”
There were already three baby Catherines in our family, for both my mother and Angelica had used the name for their youngest daughters, and Peggy had used it for her first, too.
Angelica. There was not a day that passed since my sister left for Europe that I didn’t think of her or wish she was nearer to me. I pined for her, treasured every gift she sent, and had even papered the walls of our children’s nursery with French sheeting, all covered in pink roses and ivy. I read Angelica’s letters with a selfish avarice—keeping them in a box upon my dressing table, including the one in which she shared the news of the birth of a new baby daughter, Elizabeth. She’d named her for me.
That was it. If I couldn’t have my sister with me, at least I would have her namesake. “What about the name Angelica?”
“Angelica Hamilton,” my husband said, an affectionate smile growing upon his face. “We’ll call her Ana to distinguish. I cannot think of a more perfect honor for two whom we both hold so dear.” So our daughter was named. A baby with rose-pink cheeks, wide eyes, and a commanding cry. I clutched little Ana to my breast, wishing to give her all the love I couldn’t give her namesake across the sea.
After I nursed her, I shifted to rise from the bed.
“The doctor says you should rest,” Alexander said, moving to assist me.
“So should you,” I replied, longing for his presence at my side. “You didn’t come to bed last night or the night before. I can’t remember the last time you slept.”
“I am kept at work,” he said, for contrary to his jests about how the law was a study in how to fleece one’s neighbor, he’d turned the law into an instrument of justice. In court, my husband, a lion of the revolution against the British, now held himself out as a champion of unfortunate Loyalists. And he was something to behold—relentless, persuasive, almost mesmerizing. Not just a lawyer or a politician, but a statesman determined to change minds and build a united country at any cost.
Having heard him many nights discuss one such case based upon the Trespass Act, I’d come to the courthouse to watch him from the gallery. Every manner of onlooker packed the chamber—ruffians in homespun next to the city’s finest minds and best families. Alexander was representing another Tory, and the patriotic fervor in the courtroom against his client worried me more than a little.
Finally, my husband rose before the panel of five aldermen, and a hush settled over the restless courtroom—a hush Alexander strung out until the tension was nearly unbearable. And then he unleashed a soaring campaign of words and compelling arguments about why the United States’ Peace Treaty reached with Great Britain rendered invalid any attempt to persecute or prosecute the Tories under the Trespass Act. Indeed, the audience leaned forward, as if under the sway of his oratory as Alexander strode about the chamber, articulating his points one by one, as if building a wall brick by brick. And as it rose, the mood in the crowd changed. Anger turned to questions, and suspicion turned to consideration.
In the end, Alexander created a whole new policy of judicial review for the country when he argued, “The legislature of one state cannot repeal the law of the United States.”
Alexander’s client list expanded after that trial.
And no matter how many neighbors cast dark looks my way on the street, or withheld bread, or smashed up my fruit, or wrote evil poems, I couldn’t have been prouder of him.
* * *
“MISTRESS,” JENNY SAID from the doorway of the children’s room where I was attempting to bathe a squirming Philip. “There’s a gentleman caller.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Hamilton is at court,” I said.
She bobbed her head. “I told the man as much, but he says he’ll wait.”
My son squealed and splashed in the copper tub of water and I wiped my brow with a forearm, sighing with weary exasperation and the hope that he wouldn’t awaken his four-month-old sister in her cradle. “Can’t the gentleman leave a calling card?”
“He said to tell you he can’t afford calling cards, Mistress. But he also said to tell you this exactly: that he’s brought you a gift of coffee—real coffee—to make up for the swill he once served you in an army tent.”
All at once my glum weariness passed, and with a laugh, I cheerfully surrendered my little boy—bath, towel, and all—to Jenny. I did
n’t even take the time to straighten my hair before bounding down the stairs. “Why, James Monroe! Is that you in my parlor?”
The six-foot strapping southerner made a strange sight in civilian clothes. Still, how glad I was to see him when he smiled widely over that familiar dimpled chin. “Well, I declare, it’s Betsy Schuyler—or Mrs. Hamilton, now, I’ve heard.”
“It’s true,” I said, gleefully. “Nevertheless, I would abandon all pretense of married propriety and give your neck a fond embrace if only I could reach. Dear God, what is in that southern soil that makes Virginians grow so tall?”
“The seeds of liberty,” Monroe said with a quickness he’d lacked as a younger man.
“And what brings you to New York?” I asked.
He stooped to give my hand a very gentlemanly kiss. “Virginia has sentenced me to serve here in Congress.”
“You poor wretch,” I said with a laugh, glad that Congress was now meeting in New York City. I led him into the kitchen where we set straightaway to brewing coffee to ward off the winter’s chill. I shouldn’t have invited a gentleman into the house with such familiarity, but in Monroe’s case, I could scarcely think my husband would mind.
“The coffee was roasted already by the grocer,” the Virginian said, shaking the bag and offering to pound the beans to a powder if I could provide him with a mortar and pestle. I didn’t tell him how appalled my mother would be—for she insisted that a good housekeeper always roasted her own coffee beans—but instead showed him the little coffee grinder Angelica had sent me from France.
Monroe and I fell into easy conversation as he gallantly turned the silvered handle upon the mill, and at some point, in our reminiscing, he mentioned having written me a letter before he left Valley Forge. “The letter must have miscarried,” I said, embarrassed that he thought I’d neglected to reply. But letters miscarried all the time during war, as he had good cause to know. “I never received it. Why didn’t you write again?”
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