My Dear Hamilton

by Stephanie Dray

  “Invite whoever you like!” Angelica called after him when he made for the door. “The poor baron and his dog are always in need of a good meal. And what about the Burrs? They’re wonderfully droll.”

  “Not Burr,” Alexander said sharply, just before bounding out.

  As we watched him disappear with the crowd on the street, I explained, “He’s vexed with Colonel Burr for throwing in with the antifederalists and accepting a job from Governor Clinton.” Clinton, the man whose minions called my husband Tom Shit.

  Angelica leaned closer, keen for gossip. “And that’s cause enough to prevent him from dining with the man?”

  Only someone who hadn’t lived through the recent hostilities could be surprised by this. “Not always. Sometimes I persuade him to turn the other cheek for the sake of my friendship with Theodosia, but I fear it a lost cause . . .”

  “Well, even so, you’re recompensed to have a husband so handsome and of such merit and abilities. A husband who—” Her voice caught, and she bit her lip. “A husband who plainly loves you.”

  Tears sprung to her eyes. Tears. And my heart nearly stopped in my chest because I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen Angelica cry before. Not even when we were children, lest rivals for leadership over our troop of Blues think they had the advantage.

  “Oh, Angelica, why are you crying?”

  “Because I’m so happy for you, of course.” She dabbed at her eyes with a perfumed kerchief. Then, as if she couldn’t bear for me to see her this way, she retreated to the parlor. I followed, still alarmed, even though I ought to have been minding my children, whose shoes were clopping on the polished wooden floor as they ran circles around the empty dining room. And when we were alone, she confessed, “My husband doesn’t love me.”

  I was sure I’d misheard. Everyone loved Angelica. “That can’t be true.”

  “It is,” she said, with a miserable shake of her head. “Church admits it.”

  My mouth dropped open. “Your husband could never be so cruel. He must’ve been drunk. Half out of his mind.”

  “He was drunk,” Angelica replied softly. “But I fear that only made it easier to tell the truth. That he loved me once, but not any longer.”

  In numb shock, I murmured, “Is there—is there—”

  “A woman?” she asked, with a bitter laugh. “Look hard enough and there’s always a woman. But he’s not in love with someone else. That, I could understand. That would make sense. But no. There are only three things my husband loves now. Money, gambling, and the politics of the British Parliament.”

  I could scarcely credit this. We hadn’t approved of Church to start with, but we’d all become affectionately attached to him. Even Mama, who’d once called him a macaroni. “I’m sure he loves you and the children, Angelica, no matter what he says.”

  “Jack loves our little brood,” Angelica admitted, sheepishly, as if she’d wronged him. “I shouldn’t have implied otherwise. His children delight him. But I inspire him to feel nothing.”

  A little sob escaped her, and her red watery eyes met mine. “Have I lost my beauty? My wit? Tell me, Betsy—what has changed about me that could make me so unlovable?”

  The bleeding anguish in her gaze revealed a wound as plain as I’d seen in any hospital and pity overtook me. My dazzling sister—who’d always been confident and strong and triumphant—had somehow been carved up and diminished by the man she married. And I was furious. Setting my jaw, I told her the plain truth. “You are more charming and beautiful than you’ve ever been.”

  Her smile was fleeting. “What a Schuyler you are. Always loyal. I don’t feel beautiful. Or charming. Or even welcome in my husband’s home.” She said the next more emphatically. “Of course, England was never my home. Perhaps by pleading to return to America . . . maybe that’s what did it. I’ve been so homesick that I let my own misery drive away my husband’s love. Do you know—I—well, you’ll think me terribly wicked . . .”

  She wouldn’t meet my eyes, as if afraid to tell me more. And I became even more distressed. “Wicked?”

  “Our friends in Europe are more broad-minded about love than we are here. They taught me how to take vengeance on a neglectful husband. When I met our American ambassador to France, the widowed Mr. Jefferson, and he took a fancy to me . . . I encouraged him.”

  For a moment, I was so scandalized I lost all power of speech.

  Seeing my expression, my sister quickly added, “Oh, it was only a flirtation. I’m not one of Mr. Jefferson’s lovers. But I hoped by encouraging such a tall, stately, important gentleman that my own husband might . . . well, that Church might feel jealousy.”

  “Oh, Angelica.” I breathed, bringing my hands to my face.

  Absently, she ran her fingers through the dust on the windowsill. “Unfortunately, Church scarcely even noticed.”

  “You should count yourself lucky your husband doesn’t think you guilty of adultery!”

  “He wouldn’t care if I were guilty of adultery.” She sighed, as if that were the worst part. “I know this because at a card party someone jested that the Prince of Wales might choose me for a new mistress, and do you know what my husband said?” Swallowing, I hesitated to ask, for such jests caused duels. “Church quipped that it might help him, politically. And that the next time he was losing a game of cards with the prince, he’d add me to the wager.”

  “No!” I cried, horrified.

  Obviously humiliated, a teary Angelica rushed to add, “Church was very drunk when he said that. He apologized. Begged a thousand pardons. I shouldn’t have told you. I just—I feel so ugly and unwanted and lonely. Even in a crowd, I’m so alone.”

  Here she broke down sobbing and I could do nothing but stand by, awkwardly stroking her back. This wasn’t the way things were between us. She was the older sister, always comforting me. Helping me when I skinned my knees and wiping my tears. It was a new world as I contemplated how to take care of the sister who’d taken care of me.

  After a moment, she bravely swiped at her eyes. “Well, romantic trouble isn’t so terrible in the scheme of things, is it? Given my good fortune in comparison to others, I’ve no right to feel sorry for myself.” She smoothed the bodice of her gown, such that the sunlight streaming into the airy windows made her rings glitter. “Scarcely a couple I knew in London made a match based on love. They marry for land and titles and are happy enough. Church and I have respect . . . at least, we had it. That’s why, if I return to him, I must return as the Angelica he used to know.”

  I missed a breath. “If?” The word escaped my lips, but Angelica barely seemed to notice.

  If she returned to him. Why, there couldn’t be any choice about it, could there? Divorce wasn’t impossible, but it wasn’t easy or desirable. Not for women like us. Not without adultery or some other provable cruelty, and even then it was a scandal. Women sometimes lived apart from their husbands if they had means. If they had somewhere to go. But even then, their children could be taken from them . . .

  “I have to stay gone long enough for him to miss me,” Angelica explained with a little shrug. I realized that this was a new scheme, and it settled a knot into my stomach. “Long enough to convince myself there are people who still love me. Because I feel as if no one else could possibly love me if my own husband doesn’t.”

  That’s how it was, wasn’t it? A wife’s purpose was to make her husband happy. To give him children and merit his love and esteem. Even though Angelica had done that, people would fault her for the cracks in her marriage. Especially if she let them show.

  I’d never before considered the unfairness and injustice in that. And in defiance of the very idea, I threw my arms around her. “Oh, but you are loved! We’re going to remind you of it every day. I promise we’ll never let you feel lonely here. Not for a moment.”

  I stayed at her side the rest of that afternoon as weary servants scurried back and forth to the market. When I finished nursing ten-month-old James, and put the children down for a na
p on Angelica’s enormous canopied featherbed with its damask drapes and claw-shaped feet, I helped her rearrange furniture and spoke cheerfully, trying to raise her spirits. I asked about her children, about London, about any subject that would not tread too near her troubles. But my poor sister’s spirits had been shattered to pieces.

  All those years ago, she’d put her faith in love, and now . . .

  When Alexander returned that night for dinner with his gentleman friends, I whispered, “Please compliment my sister’s gown.”

  Alexander arched a brow, as if he hoped some amusing game was afoot. “Hmm?”

  Clutching his arm with urgency, I leaned closer. “She’s very much in need of kindness.”

  My husband cocked his other eyebrow only briefly before turning his charm on my sister like a cannonade, blasting her with compliments until, for just a moment, I imagined we were back in a Morristown ballroom where he’d called her the Divine Mrs. Carter.

  When Angelica’s servants brought expensive port and custard-filled profiteroles purchased at the nearby patisserie, he conversed with her in French.

  I didn’t know what he said, but whatever it was made her laugh with delight.

  And I was grateful. So very grateful.

  A little mesmerized, too, by the way Angelica managed to affect a mask of joy in the presence of her guests. While the baron told jokes in his harsh guttural accent, she fed his dog little tidbits, as if she didn’t even mind the creature in her house. Not a trace of her misery slipped out as she poured wine and sang songs and insisted that we all play cards together despite the mixed company.

  She was, I realized, an extraordinary actress. And as the exhausted servants cleared away the dishes, I wondered how much of what I’d always taken for my sister’s confidence and daring was a shield for vulnerability that I never knew was there. I’d always been too busy and curious about the world to dwell on insecurities, but I’d certainly felt myself to be less beguiling—less interesting—than my sisters, so it was a revelation to learn that my bold, charming Angelica might harbor such feelings. Knowing this made me all the more affectionate and protective toward her.

  From behind the white lace of her sleeve and the fan of her cards, my sister asked, “How did you let the insouciant Colonel Burr become an anitfederalist?”

  “Burr is worse than an antifederalist,” Alexander groused, slyly sliding his card onto the table while the baron puffed at his pipe. “He’s turned out to be an opportunist. Burr only decided to oppose the Constitution in order to curry favor with Governor Clinton, from whom he has now accepted a post.”

  Hoping to stave off what I knew would be a lengthy diatribe, I patted my husband’s hand and grinned at him. “We won, Alexander. Clinton tried to stop you, but you got the Constitution passed and became a hero to the city. You even crushed Clinton’s candidacy for the vice presidency. Isn’t that enough?”

  Alexander turned on me like a lawyer at court, as if my sister were the judge. “It will be enough when Clinton holds no influence anywhere or with anyone, including Burr.”

  “Oh, my dear brother,” Angelica interrupted, with a laugh. “You mustn’t chide Betsy for elevated instincts. Unlike Machiavelli she’s far too saintly to adhere to the principle that once one makes an enemy of a man, one must not leave him alive to get revenge. At least not politically alive. Betsy is too kindhearted for that, whereas I have no such scruples. If Clinton got in your way, I approve of any and all measures to be rid of him, even if it means shunning Colonel Burr. It’s a matter of loyalty after all. Semper Fidelis.”

  * * *

  “CHURCH,” PEGGY GROUND out through clenched teeth, keeping her voice low, so as not to wake her new baby in his cradle. “And to think we called him brother.” She had, praise God, come through her ordeal and given birth to a son. Another Stephen. And the little boy was so healthy that a happy Peggy joined the rest of the family in New York City for the inauguration of our first president, George Washington.

  Unfortunately, I’d ruined Peggy’s mood by telling her of Angelica’s troubles.

  I’d hesitated to tell Peggy but needed her discretion. “You mustn’t say anything. For Angelica’s sake. I only revealed this because you must help me to divert the family from asking questions that our sister finds too painful to answer.”

  Blowing dark curls out of her eyes, Peggy speared me with a side glance. “I’ll try, but you know how Mama can be. She’ll sniff out the trouble in a minute.”

  On inauguration day, all of Wall Street was a sea of straw hats, colorful parasols, and children hoisted aloft on shoulders, straining for a glimpse of the president. Banners danced in the early spring breeze, keeping time to the lively music made by minstrels on every corner.

  Troops marched in blue coats with red facings and gold embroideries, cocked hats with white feathers, and black spatterdashes buttoned closed from the shoe to the knee. Scottish infantry marched in full Highland costume with bagpipes. And we Hamiltons and Schuylers crowded onto my upstairs balcony to watch the spectacle occurring just across the street at Federal Hall.

  The building had been recently renovated with elegant stone archways, white neoclassical marbled columns, and a majestic glass cupola. And as we gazed in admiration, the crowd went silent. The president emerged onto the outside gallery, and now, with several attendants, stood between two pillars in a dark brown coat, waistcoat, and breeches, with white silk stockings and plain silver buckles glinting on his shoes. The secretary of the Senate held an open Bible upon a rich crimson cushion as the oath was administered.

  “It’s regrettable that Mr. Church could not be here to share such a celebratory moment,” Mama said, her too-observant gaze upon Angelica.

  “Look! Washington is raising his hand,” Peggy exclaimed, stepping between them as she patted her baby’s back.

  “He’s so distinguished,” Angelica said softly, giving Peggy an appreciative glance. “Like a statue, or an old pagan god.”

  Alexander had persuaded George Washington that he was the only man who could hold the new government together as commander in chief, and certainly his dignified bearing inspired confidence. But I was struck by the strangest notion that Washington looked frightened. And I clutched at the pendant worn round my neck, as if, through the talisman of his hair clipping, I could lend strength to him. We could not, from our place, hear the words of the oath distinctly. But we did see him bow to kiss the Bible, his eyes closed as if in prayer.

  And my husband and my father closed their eyes, too, in relief or thanksgiving or both. This moment had been a long time in coming. Both of them had lost friends to the cause. All of us had sacrificed for it. And my lower lip trembled when someone from the crowd below shouted, “Long live George Washington, president of the United States!”

  The sentiment was punctuated by the boom of a cannon that frightened all our little ones. Mama ushered the children back into the house while the crowd roared its approval, and the deed was done. All that was left was to celebrate.

  But Angelica seemed reluctant to come out with us. Infected by the thrill of the day, and my fear of leaving Mama and Angelica alone together, I insisted. “I must show you a new invention on the streets. Artwork, painted on transparent canvas, to be illuminated behind in such a way as it brings the pictures alive.”

  Angelica smiled sadly. “I saw such in France.”

  “You haven’t seen the entire harbor illuminated with lamps and fireworks! Besides, Hamilton is so looking forward to your company.”

  Angelica flicked a fond glance at my husband. “Well, he is the hero of the hour . . .”

  My husband didn’t deny it. Instead, he said, “And the hero is entitled to the spoils. Come out with me, my beautiful brunettes, and I shall be the envy of every man in the city.”

  We laughed, thinking it quite a wonderful thing to be envied. In those heady, happy days, we’d not learned yet that envy is a poison to which none are immune . . .

  Chapter Nineteen


  May 7, 1789

  New York City

  IT’S GOING TO be the most brilliant of entertainments,” I said. “The inaugural ball is a celebration of all our hard work and sacrifice.”

  “Not for me. Not without my husband.” Angelica strolled to the window, staring out over the street at the passing carriages on the busy thoroughfare. “You’ll say that I’ve gone to balls without him before, but that was different. I wasn’t a castoff wife to be pitied and scorned.”

  The post had come without a letter from her husband or her children. She’d taken it hard, and I was determined to cheer her. “No one will pity or scorn you,” I said, though I suspected it to be a lie. “No one will even guess that anything is amiss.”

  She forced herself to smile. “Except for you, Betsy. You’ll spend your evening fretting over me and I would never wish to take away from your happiness when you’re soon to be such a grand lady.”

  Looking down at my stained apron, I said, “I’m hardly a grand lady.”

  Angelica also looked at my stained apron and made a face. “You’d best transform yourself into one, then, because everyone will look to you to set the style. Mrs. Washington hasn’t yet arrived in New York City to take her place at the president’s side. Mrs. Adams isn’t here yet, either. And Mrs. Knox has grown too fleshy to delight in dancing anymore.”

  Still, I was scarcely in any position to replace any of those ladies. “No one will look to me. I’m just the wife of a New York assemblyman.”

  At this, Angelica let out a sudden howl of laughter. “You dare not let Hamilton hear you diminish his stature in such a way! His pride couldn’t let the insult stand. You’re the wife of the mastermind who brought this presidency into being, and everyone knows it.”

  That was true enough. I glowed with pride at my husband’s accomplishments, but I didn’t wish to indulge my own vanity.

  “And who knows what he’ll go on to do next,” Angelica gushed.