Hamilton and Peggy!

by L. M. Elliott

  Eliza looked up at Peggy. “Alexander adds that he believes she knew nothing of her husband’s plotting until Arnold fled. That Mrs. Arnold was as surprised as they. Poor lady. How horrible. Can you imagine?”

  Peggy wasn’t so sure she could. Mrs. Arnold’s raving sounded a bit like that scene Moses Harris had described to her when he had been desperate to save himself from hanging—tearing open his shirt to bare his chest, telling the British to shoot him, that death was better than being suspected of disloyalty to his king. He’d advised Peggy to remember that if she ever were caught in a beartrap herself: a bit of outraged innocence could get her out of a heap of trouble.

  Oh my! What a clever woman Mrs. Arnold was! Thinking on it, Peggy burst out laughing. She couldn’t believe that Hamilton was naive enough to believe her hysteria.

  Eliza looked aghast. “Peggy, how can you be so cruel? That’s not like you.”

  Peggy peeped over Eliza’s shoulder to read a bit of the letter for herself. She pointed to the section in which Hamilton visited Mrs. Arnold the next morning:

  “She received us in bed, with every circumstance that could interest our sympathy. Her sufferings were so eloquent that I wished myself her brother, to have a right to become her defender.”

  Shaking off a strange pang of jealousy that Hamilton wished he were Mrs. Arnold’s brother, Peggy said, mirth still ringing in her voice, “In her bed, in her nightgown? Oh, Eliza, think! This is Peggy Shippen, correct? The girl proclaimed the most beautiful woman in all of America. The girl who reigned supreme at all the balls in Philadelphia when Papa was in Congress. Remember the scandalous stories of her being in that Meschianza—that bacchanal the British hosted for themselves before they evacuated the city. There was a jousting tournament, floating barges covered with flowers, an elaborate feast. Didn’t she appear in some dramatic staging, dressed like a . . .” Peggy lowered her voice, remembering that Rensselaer was still sitting in the room. “Like a Turkish harem girl? She’d surely be capable of a little theater acting. And we all thought she was a Tory even then, remember?”

  Eliza folded up the letter. “You mock me.”

  “Oh no, no, my dear, I never would do that.” Peggy took Eliza’s hand and kissed it as apology. “But . . .” She hesitated a moment. She took a deep breath and dared saying, “As beautiful and charming as his writing and conversations are, I do think you will need to be aware of Hamilton’s romanticized notions, Eliza. He seems fond of putting everything and everyone into poetical terms or mythology and turning simple events into epics as large as Greek tragedies.”

  “I know.” Eliza’s face puckered. “I am so afraid that I will not be smart enough for him.”

  “Of course you are!” Peggy put her arm around her middle sister. That was not what she had meant for Eliza to feel at all. The fault, if that was the right word, was in Hamilton’s tendency to aggrandize everything, not in her sister’s intelligence.

  “You are one of the smartest, most intuitive persons I know. Nobody sings or plays the pianoforte as beautifully as you, Eliza. That takes such an active, intelligent creativity, analyzing the emotions a composer intends in those scratchy notes on a page, learning and perfecting the technique that gives you the skill to bring those skeletal notations to full-fleshed life in your performance. As far as I am concerned, Eliza, that is the greatest act of intelligence a human being is capable of. Music is air made rapturous, achieving the sublime, capturing the harmony of the spheres for a fleeting moment so we can hear it. It is the closest we get to God. So, therefore, it is pure brilliance of the soul.”

  “Really?” Eliza’s eyes welled up with tears of gratitude. “You believe so?”

  “Yes, really.” Peggy hugged her. “What bred this insecurity?”

  Eliza glanced nervously at Rensselaer still sitting in the chair, swinging his legs, watching them.

  “Ren,” Peggy cooed at him, “why don’t you go see what Jeremiah is doing?”

  He grinned at her. “Don’t wanna.”

  “How about checking on Mama, then?”

  He shook his head. “She werpts.”

  “That’s because you’re going to have a little brother or sister.”

  He made a face.

  Peggy kept trying. “Where’s Cornelia? I bet she’d like to play.”

  He shrugged.

  Eliza put her hand on Peggy’s arm and smiled in a watch-this expression. “Well, you’ll want to cover your ears, then, my dearest,” she said to Rensselaer, “because Peggy and I need to talk about love and girl things.”

  That sent the seven-year-old running.

  The sisters pealed with laughter. “And why do you think you’re not smart?” Peggy demanded.

  “Because of this.” Eliza pulled from her pocket a packet of Hamilton’s letters, tied neatly in ribbon. She searched for the one she wanted and opened it.

  Peggy noted with a little pang of pity and angry protectiveness that the paper was dotted with stains—tearstains.

  Eliza took a deep breath and in a voice filled with embarrassment read:

  “I entreat you my Charmer, not to neglect the charges I gave you particularly that of taking care of your self, and that of employing all your leisure in reading. Nature has been very kind to you; do not neglect to cultivate her gifts and to enable yourself to make the distinguished figure in all respects to which you are intitled to aspire. You excel most of your sex in all the amiable qualities; endeavour to excel them equally in the splendid ones. You can do it if you please and I shall take pride in it. It will be a fund too, to diversify our enjoyments and amusements and fill all our moments to advantage.”

  “Oh, Eliza, that is nonsense! Who does he think he is? Pygmalion?” As soon as Peggy referenced the sculptor that Greek mythology claimed had breathed actual life and thought into a beautiful but inanimate statue, she knew she had made a mistake.

  “You see,” Eliza wailed. “Alexander is right. I would never have thought of that story. He will become bored with me.” She caught her breath in little sobs. “He would be better off married to you. Or . . . or . . . or to Angelica. Angelica would better satisfy his mind and that quick wit of his. He leaves me tongue-tied.”

  Eliza buried her face in her hands and wept. Peggy wrapped her arms around her. A dozen scenes of searing glances, wry smiles, heated political debate, and playful repartee between her eldest sister and her middle sister’s fiancé played out in Peggy’s mind as she kissed Eliza’s head and murmured, “You are worrying over nothing, dearest.” But was she?

  Was that what was between Hamilton and Angelica? An intellectual hunger? Or was it just Hamilton showing off in the feral tomcat way he was legendary for among Washington’s military family? Certainly, he flirted unnecessarily with Peggy, more out of habit than any kind of interest. With her sister, was their fiery banter simply the brilliant, well-read Angelica reliving the time she was still free . . . free to choose her path? Suddenly Peggy’s heart ached for her eldest sister. Angelica was clearly so unhappy on the road her marriage to Carter dictated she travel.

  Then her sympathy switched to her middle sister. What would happen if Eliza sensed the heat between her husband-to-be and Angelica? Surely, it would tear the sisters apart. And what would Eliza think of Peggy if she knew Peggy had suspected the ardor and not told her? What would Angelica feel about her if she tattled her suspicions to Eliza?

  Peggy stood in a horrific no-man’s-land between them.

  A fury filled Peggy. How dare these men endanger their trio’s sacrosanct relationship and sully the happiness of her sisters? “The man is patronizing, Eliza,” she blurted out. “You are too good for him, I swear. Shame on Hamilton for making you feel less than you are!”

  Eliza pulled back abruptly from Peggy. “Take that back.”

  “What?” Peggy was flummoxed.

  “Never say shame on Alexander. Ever.” Trembling, Eliza stood up. “He is the most noble of hearts. He is destined for greatness. Martha Washington told me that
His Excellency is determined to keep Alexander alive because he will know how to design a new democracy for us when the war is over. We must all safeguard him now.”

  Peggy reached for Eliza’s hand, but her sister clasped hers behind her back. “He was shamed enough in his childhood. Did you know that in Saint Croix he was refused entry to school because he was illegitimate? Everything he knows he taught himself, by reading. Take it back.”

  “Eliza!” Peggy felt hot, defensive tears stinging her own face. “I only speak out of love for you. Your husband should never make you feel badly about yourself. You especially—you are so beyond reproach.”

  But Eliza only shook her head. “Take it back,” she whispered.

  Peggy stared at her sister. She saw their future and it about broke her heart. The Schuyler sisters—like jigsaw pieces that made no sense alone, lacking context, connection, but when linked together depicted all, supported all—would never be the same. There would be truths Peggy could not utter because they challenged Eliza’s perceptions of the man she loved and might drive a wedge between Peggy and her.

  Peggy swallowed. “I take it back.”

  Eliza flung herself at Peggy to hug her, squeezing hard. Holding on to each other, they rocked. Just as they had as children when one fell down or had a fright and the other comforted.

  Was that to be Peggy’s role with her sisters now? To watch in sorrow as they were hurt and then tend the wound? Or was the challenge to watch carefully and intercede when she could tell her sisters were ready to hear uncomfortable truths? Would she not be able to prevent the pain from happening in the first place?

  Everything had become so complicated. The only thing she knew for sure was that she must love and stand steadfast on their flank no matter what.

  Eliza wiped a tear away.

  Well, there was one truth Peggy could share with Eliza that might ease her distress. “You know, Eliza, in Hartford, Hamilton could not stop talking to me about how exquisite your soul is.” Peggy left off his complaints that Eliza did not write him enough or passionately enough. “He was quite distressed that you might receive suitors in his absence.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.” Peggy kissed her sister’s hand again. “Doesn’t he fill his letters with such concerns?”

  Eliza smiled. “Yes.” She blushed. “And many other things that are . . .” She broke off her words and rolled her eyes with a giggle. “You know.”

  No, Peggy didn’t. She had no letters from Fleury. But she had felt the flush of “you know” in his kiss. What did his silence mean?

  “Tell me a good book to read before Alexander gets here for the wedding,” Eliza asked, brightened considerably in mood even as Peggy grew disheartened. “Something that will interest him if I discuss it.”

  “What are you reading right now?”

  Eliza wrinkled up her nose with playful embarrassment.

  Peggy so loved this humorous side of her sister. “What?” she asked.

  Eliza shrugged and covered her face with her hands, then opened them like a window to whisper, “Pamela.” Then she covered her face again. “I know you hate it.”

  That tripe again? Eliza must have it memorized by now. But Peggy burst out laughing with affection. “Come on.” She took Eliza’s hands. “Let’s to father’s library.”

  “But there’s only war histories and treatises on geometry and algebra.”

  “Oh, there’s so much more! Whole worlds await in his books,” Peggy reassured her. “Worlds you will delight in, get lost in, learn in, cry in. Worlds for your own enjoyment, your own edification that you can then share with your husband as a common joy, a mutual adventure. You just have to know where to look. Hidden among all those philosophies and biographies Papa also has things like Voltaire’s poetry, including . . .” She pulled Eliza to her feet and added mischievously, “His rather shocking one about Joan d’Arc.”

  “But it’s in French,” Eliza protested.

  “That, my dearest sister, I will happily read aloud and translate for you.”

  A few days later another Hamilton letter came for Eliza.

  “Any other letters, sir?” Peggy hopefully asked the mail rider.

  “No, miss,” he answered as he tucked into his satchel the letters she handed him from her father for headquarters. “Good day, miss.” He tugged the brim of his hat before trotting his horse away down the hill.

  Trying to hide her disappointment at still not having a single word from Fleury, Peggy flopped down next to Eliza and asked her to share her letter.

  Eliza looked at her with surprise and a blush.

  “Not everything, silly. Just the news.”

  “Well.” Eliza skimmed a bit and said, “Alexander describes the trial and hanging of General Arnold’s British contact, Major André. How sad it made him because the major was so noble and poetical.” Eliza read on, frowned, and then murmured to herself, “Oh dear. You should not disparage General Washington’s decisions, my love.”

  Peggy’s eyebrow shot up, impressed at Eliza’s recognition. She had a large task ahead of her, safeguarding Hamilton from his more hotheaded opinions.

  Eliza continued. “I wished myself possessed of André’s accomplishments for your sake; for I would wish to charm you in every sense.”

  “There, you see, my dear,” Peggy interrupted. “You really must stop worrying about how much he loves you.”

  Smiling shyly, Eliza nodded. “He says that in my eyes he ‘should wish to be the first the most amiable the most accomplished of my sex; but I will make up all I want in—’”

  Eliza stopped abruptly, read the next bit silently, and turned red. Then she exclaimed, “Oh, Peggy! This next paragraph is about you: ‘How is your little sister? Is she as sprightly as ever? Does she set so much value upon a certain kiss as she seemed to do when we entered the carriage at Hartford?’”

  “Akiss?” Eliza gasped. “What kiss? Did Fleury kiss you?” She giggled. “Have you . . . Have you come to an agreement and you haven’t told me, little sister? What is he like? I only know that he is terribly handsome and quite the hero. Oh, how lovely to have a Frenchman as a brother-in-law!”

  Peggy stood, her face burning, her heart hurting. “I haven’t heard a word from him. I don’t want to talk about it.” And she fled the house for the garden to kick as many pebbles as possible.

  Seventeen

  Early Winter

  Alexander Hamilton to Eliza Schuyler

  Preakness, New Jersey, October 27, 1780

  How happy am I to think that one month more puts an end to our long separation; shall I find you my Dear girl as impatient to receive me as I shall be to fly to your bosom? . . . With transport will my heart answer to the question,will you take this woman to be thy wedded wife?

  Prepare my charming bride to crown your lover with every thing that is tender, kind, passionate and endearing in your sex. He will bring you a heart fraught with all a fond woman can wish. . . .

  God bless you My Darling girl. Mention me affectionately to your Mother and to Peggy. Tell all the family I love them, and assure yourself that my affection for you is inviolable.

  A Hamilton

  “LET US PRAY FOR SNOW ON YOUR WEDDING DAY,” said Catharine, watching their servant Moll pin a sky-blue band along the hem of Eliza’s white brocade gown. Eliza was a mass of pins. She wanted the more luxurious flounces removed so her gown better matched the austerity of the Continental Army uniform Hamilton would wear in the ceremony. Her mother had protested but Eliza, in an unusual display of stubbornness, had persisted.

  “Oh, Mama, let us not hope for snow,” said Peggy. “We had so much last year, I almost wish to never see another flake ever again.” She was curled up in the window seat of their bedroom with Cornelia, working through the alphabet with her, but mostly trying to stay out of Catharine’s wake. Seven months pregnant, their mother already cut a wide, uncomfortable berth. She moved slowly and painfully and in fretful spurts, her feet and legs badly swollen.


  “But snow on a wedding day portends fertility and wealth,” said Catharine. No matter how anglicized she and their papa had become in the way they decorated their mansion, dressed themselves, or entertained, Catharine’s Dutch heritage slipped out in superstitions. The blue ribbon on Eliza’s dress was part of that—it symbolized purity.

  “What does fer-fertootully mean?” asked Cornelia, looking up at Peggy. She was about to turn five years old and had become obsessed with whatever her big sisters were doing or saying and the meaning of each and every word uttered around her.

  “It means that Mama hopes Eliza is blessed with many lovely plums like those in our orchard!” Peggy pinched her little sister’s nose affectionately.

  Grateful for the metaphor, Catharine carried it through to literal plums. “Isn’t it a wonderment that there are still some for the wedding party? Your papa is so proud of them.” She lowered herself into a chair, rubbing her stomach and sighing heavily. It was midmorning and she still wore her dressing gown, the biggest sign of how physically exhausted their mother was. Peggy earnestly hoped this would be Catharine’s last pregnancy. Her body was not as strong as it had been. Carrying a child was taxing for even the healthy and young, plus giving birth, even for a veteran mother, carried so many dangers. Peggy wasn’t sure that her papa would survive if Catharine died. His voice still carried honey when he addressed her as “my beloved Kitty.”

  Despite her physical fatigue, Catharine was clearly delighting in the hubbub of wedding preparations. Eliza had confided to Peggy she’d considered running off to marry Hamilton wherever he was—it was taking so long for him to arrange leave from Washington’s staff to make the trip to Albany for their wedding. Thank goodness she had changed her mind—Catharine would have been crushed. And she never would have forgiven Peggy for helping another sister abscond.