Hamilton and Peggy!

by L. M. Elliott

  “Why?” Eliza’s suspicions flared.

  “Just the back. I want to look at that wax seal.”

  “Oh.” She sighed. “Of course. I love how my husband says what he thinks and feels—without reservation. But I am learning I must help him temper himself. Alexander shouldn’t have said where he was going, should he?”

  Peggy shook her head.

  Eliza handed her the letter. “Can you tell if the seal was previously broken as you might do it?”

  Peggy looked at Eliza with surprise.

  “I was there as you opened a letter when Papa’s hands were bothering him, remember? I know you’ve been helping Papa with”—she paused—“many things. I have been glad of it since I have been away. It was easier for me, knowing you were here for him.”

  “Really?” Peggy asked. No jealousy?

  “Really.” Eliza reached out and squeezed Peggy’s hand. “Does the seal look all right?”

  “I think so. Hopefully it will not matter in any case. Surely our troops are well on their way now.”

  She handed the letter back to Eliza. “Does he say things that reassure you how much he loves you?”

  “Listen and see what you think.” Shyly she read aloud: “What a world will soon be between us! To support the idea, all my fortitude is insufficient. What must be the case with you, who have the most female of female hearts? I sink at the perspective of your distress, and I look to heaven to be your guardian and supporter.”

  “There, you see,” Peggy interrupted. “That was precisely his concern when he left and what he asked of me right before he rode away. What does he say about the campaign?”

  “That they have received news that assures him of success and that he shall be home by November.”

  “November! They must have intelligence that makes them confident. That is good, Eliza!”

  She nodded. “And he promises me to renounce public life after the war.” Pleased, she read, “Let others waste their time and their tranquillity in a vain pursuit of power and glory; be it my object to be happy in a quiet retreat with my better angel.”

  “Oh my, such words he writes you. You cannot doubt his love. And he is right, Eliza. You are indeed his better angel.” Peggy just hoped Hamilton would stick to his statement that Eliza would be more important to him than power or glory. That was yet to be proven, and would require Hamilton to fight against his very nature.

  “Eliza,” Peggy began, and then paused a moment to collect her thoughts. She knew she had to help her Eliza come to terms with Angelica. Peggy had learned a great deal from helping their papa and watching his mind at work as he negotiated truces and alliances among hot-blooded revolutionists. First compliment, then explain the other side’s point of view, and conclude with the need for reconciliation. “Angelica is intoxicating but she is not sustenance, not for Hamilton. You must try to see their conversation as the kind of discourse I imagine happens at a college. But you are his home, Eliza. When Hamilton asked me to look after you, he admitted something I hadn’t thought about before.”

  “What is that?”

  “Your husband has never really had a family. His mother died when he was very young. Correct?”

  Eliza nodded, adding, “His father ran off.”

  “I don’t think he knows yet how to be part of a family. He’ll learn that with you. With us.” Peggy laughed. “It’s hard to avoid with all of us; we will beat it into him by sheer number.”

  Eliza giggled.

  “Hamilton speaks his heart in his letters. Trust that. And he should come to understand our sisterhood, how close we all are, and that to drive a wedge in it is cruel.”

  They both glanced toward the bed. “What if Angelica dies?” whispered Eliza. “It will be my fault.”

  “Oh no, Eliza, it . . . it just happened.” Peggy put her arm around Eliza and sat them both down in the window seat.

  Sighing, Eliza leaned her head on Peggy’s shoulder. “I know Angelica is not happy. It breaks my heart for her.” She took in a deep breath. “If such conversations keep her spirited nature alive, I will try not to be alarmed by them.” Eliza folded the letter, content. “Thank you for reassuring me, Peggy. I know I can be . . .” She hesitated. “A little anxious sometimes. I am lucky to have you as a sister.”

  The two sat quietly for a few minutes, while Peggy wondered if she ever really wanted to marry, thinking of how disappointed and limited Angelica obviously felt and how frightened Eliza was of losing Hamilton’s love. If Peggy ever married, it would have to be a man who respected and yearned for her as an equal in mind and strength of personality. A next-to-impossible demand in king-ruled colonies, but perhaps possible in a new Republic, a meritocracy that valued individual mettle and common sense.

  Suddenly Eliza put her hand to her side and whispered in amazement, “I think I just felt the baby kick!” She grimaced and then giggled. “Oh my, it’s strong!”

  “That’s just the beginning, dearest,” came a wan voice from the bed.

  “Angelica!” Peggy and Eliza cried. They nearly knocked each other down in their scramble to take her hand, one in each of theirs.

  “How are you feeling?” asked Peggy.

  “Weak. How is my baby?”

  “Absolutely fine. He seems a lusty little fellow. The wet nurse is keeping him happy until you are well.”

  Angelica nodded slowly, relieved. Her eyes closed, then opened. “I have you two to thank for his life. And mine.”

  Tears on her face, Eliza hastened to kiss Angelica, and rest her cheek against her big sister’s, as Angelica cried as well—an unspoken apology and forgiveness between them.

  “I don’t know what I would do without you two,” Angelica whispered, then added with a feeble laugh, “We are a powerful coven.”

  “Witches?” Eliza teased her. “Surely not?”

  “No,” Peggy said thoughtfully, thinking on the way Hamilton had greeted her at the Morristown ball. “No, we are the three Graces.”

  Once Peggy had thought of their trio like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, none of their images clear without being linked to the other two. At least that had been how she had seen herself, defined according to comparison or by her relationship to her older sisters—and Peggy. But now that she had found her own role, her own identity, Peggy could see that each Schuyler sister had her own talents and personality—they were simply more potent in affecting their individual fates when joined together in purpose.

  Yes, the three Graces.

  “That makes you Aglaea, then,” murmured Angelica.

  “The goddess of brightness,” added Eliza.

  Angelica looked at her with a bit of astonishment.

  Eliza grinned back. “I listen to what you two quote from your reading.”

  “Oh yes.” Peggy nodded at Angelica. “That one is full of surprises. Or perhaps we just didn’t recognize all her talents before.”

  “Ah, that is often the way with quiet ones,” Angelica answered. She squeezed Eliza’s hand.

  “And with the youngest ones,” said Eliza, looking toward Peggy.

  They had come a long way, the three of them, in their Revolution.

  The Schuyler sisters hugged—tight, hearing one another’s breath, feeling one another’s heartbeats. Just as they had done when they were little and jumped into the sweet-cool lake by their Saratoga country home. Just as they had embraced the night Angelica eloped, when the first of them broke away to pursue her own life. Just as they would until the day one of them died.

  Postlude

  Epilogue: June 1782

  I have the Honor to inform Congress, that a Reduction of the British Army under the Command of Lord Cornwallis, is most happily effected. The unremitting Ardor which actuated every Officer and Soldier in the combined Army on this Occasion, has principally led to this Important Event, at an earlier period than my most sanguine Hopes had induced me to expect. . . .

  I should be wanting in the feelings of Gratitude, did I not mention on this Occasion,
with the warmest Sense of Acknowledgements, the very chearfull and able Assistance, which I have received in the Course of our Operations, from, his Excellency the Count de Rochambeau, and all his Officers of every Rank, in their respective Capacities. Nothing could equal this Zeal of our Allies, but the emulating Spirit of the American Officers, whose Ardor would not suffer their Exertions to be exceeded.

  . . . Congress will be pleased to accept my Congratulations on this happy Event.

  —General George Washington on the American victory at Yorktown

  “MISS SCHUYLER, MAY I HOLD MY GODDAUGHTER?”

  Peggy looked up in wonderment at the face of General George Washington. He had come to Albany to discuss securing upstate New York from continued British and Tory raids along Lake Champlain and to meet with the Oneida and Tuscarora. Even six months after his victory at Yorktown, the threats from the enemy remained very real.

  Of course, Albany had greeted His Excellency with jubilation—a thirteen-gun salute, an illumination of the entire city, a parade and review of troops, and the mayor presenting him with a gold box containing a document representing freedom. Now her family was celebrating him, along with generals Lafayette, Knox, and Greene, with a ball in their mansion’s upstairs salon. Little Caty had been toddling and escaped Peggy to run headfirst into the crowd. Peggy had just crouched and crawled after her littlest sister to catch her before someone accidentally trampled her.

  “O-o-of course, Your Excellency,” she stammered, rising from the floor to hand Caty over. Despite having danced with him at Morristown and his gracious greeting of her that morning, Peggy was still in nervous awe of the man. She prayed little Caty would not be fussy in His Excellency’s arms. No matter how intrepid she was physically, the toddler was at that stage where she could be fearful with strangers.

  “Hello, little lady,” Washington said gently, in that oddly whispery voice of his. “It is my great honor to meet you finally. We are to be fast friends, you and I.”

  At first Caty’s face puckered, but the general swayed and bobbed her, like the expert dancer he was, and she relaxed. She patted his gold epaulets and then grabbed his nose.

  Washington chortled.

  “Oh, sir, I am so sorry!” Peggy reached to take Caty—the general had a reputation for being standoffish regarding physical contact—but Washington stopped her.

  “Do not worry, Miss Schuyler. It is a joy to hold a young child.” Caty finally released his nose, fascinated instead by all his buttons. He cocked his head to watch her a moment. “You are as beautiful as your big sister.”

  “Yes, she does look like Angelica,” demurred Peggy. “And Eliza as well, for that matter.”

  “I meant you, Miss Schuyler.” Washington smiled at her—that slightly mysterious tight-lipped expression of his. “I hear she is high-spirited as well. Your papa is a lucky man to have such daughters.”

  “Thank you, Your Excellency.” Pleased but suddenly shy as well, Peggy couldn’t think of anything to say other than, “I hope you are enjoying your stay?”

  “Very much so,” Washington answered. “I look forward to inspecting the fort and hospital, and riding to Saratoga with General Schuyler tomorrow. But I would prefer, in truth, to stay here and play a bit with your sister.” He looked over the crowd of guests coming up the stairs from dinner, gathering for dancing. “I hope you will grant me a dance again this evening? One of the highlights of Morristown was our country dance.”

  He remembered! “Oh yes, please, Your Excellency; it would be my great honor.”

  “You will have to save one for me. I am sure there are many lads who will duel for the opportunity to partner you.”

  Ever honest, Peggy blurted out, “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, General.” Then she wanted to clap her hand to her mouth. She shouldn’t admit such things at a polite gathering; it begged flattery or pity. But her words couldn’t be taken back. She shrugged slightly, embarrassed for herself.

  Washington fixed those deep-set analytical gray eyes on hers. For someone who had fought so many battles, witnessed such pain, loss, and betrayals, and had to scrutinize the motivations of countless would-be intimates and foes, they were remarkably kind, those eyes. “Nonsense, Miss Schuyler. The situation simply wants a man of integrity and courage, who relishes a sword fight with an equal.” He smiled to reassure Peggy what he said was meant as a compliment. “Remember this—a sensible woman can never be happy with a fool.” He paused. “Particularly . . . a French one.”

  Peggy flamed red. If Hamilton had told His Excellency about Fleury she would strangle him. Instinctively, she looked to the corner where he and Eliza were chatting happily with General Greene. Hamilton had gained the glory he sought at Yorktown, leading a do-or-die bayonet charge into a well-fortified redoubt, clearing the field for Lafayette’s full attack. Eliza had safely given birth to a boy, another Philip in honor of their papa. Hamilton was settling into reading the law. But he had a lot to learn about protecting his clients’ secrets—if he had indeed betrayed her confidence by telling George Washington, of all people!

  Washington noticed her gaze and said, “A general must be observant of those around him, not just relying on reports of trusted junior officers.” Then he kept talking, addressing his words to Caty in that overly emphatic, storytelling happy voice adults use for babies, but clearly meaning in message for Peggy. “A beautiful and accomplished lady will turn the heads and set the circle in which she moves on fire. But once the torch bursts into a blaze with a particular gentleman, the lady must ask herself several important questions.” He made a face at Caty, as if he expected the child to respond. Her little face dimpled with glee at the game.

  “The lady must ask herself: Who exactly is this invader? Have I competent knowledge of him?” Washington continued as if singing a nursery rhyme. Caty giggled.

  “Is he a man of good character, a man of sense? Or is he a gambler, a spendthrift, or a drunkard?” He drew out the last words with a growl. Caty laughed outright.

  “Do my friends have no reasonable objection to him?” Washington made his eyes big and his face look surprised, and Caty clapped her hands in delight.

  “If these questions are satisfactorily answered, there remains but one more to be asked. Are his affections engaged by me and me alone? If my passion is not reciprocated, the man is not worthy of me. Isn’t that right, Miss Caty?” He tickled Caty’s belly and she squealed with laughter.

  Then the general turned to Peggy with all earnestness to say, “A lady of character deserves a man who looks nowhere but at her.” He leaned closer and added quietly, “Like the lad who has been reclining against the door and watching you this entire time.”

  Washington handed Caty to Moll, who had come to watch the baby so Peggy could enjoy the dancing that was about to begin. He bowed to Peggy. “I look forward to our dance, Miss Schuyler.”

  Then General George Washington strode into the crowd and a siege of questions: What are we to do about the Redcoats still occupying New York City? Where do our peace talks stand? How will Congress pay all the back wages of the Continental Army? What does land in the Ohio territory look like and when can we Patriots take ownership of it? Pleas of “Your Excellency, sir” echoed over and over throughout the salon.

  Peggy watched him disappear into his supplicants and then slowly turned her eyes to the doorframe he mentioned. There stood Aaron Burr, the young Continental Army officer Schuyler was also allowing to use his library to study the law. Burr was talking with dear old Richard Varick. Peggy smiled. Thanks to her father, Washington was now employing Varick as his personal secretary. As such, Varick had arrived with the general’s entourage. It was the first she had seen him since Benedict Arnold’s betrayal.

  Earlier that day he had told her, with great apologies, that he was in love and had an understanding with a woman he’d grown up with. Peggy had been proud of herself for not laughing outright at him, but feigning instead slight disappointment and wishing him well. There would be hel
l to pay later with her mother, but she’d think on that another time. What lad was Washington talking about?

  Shifting her gaze slightly to the left, through a gaggle of locals ogling the military dignitaries, she caught a partial view of a young man, indeed leaning against the door. As she looked, he tilted his face so she could see him better—clearly he’d been watching and waiting for her glance to reach him. A mop of soft black curls fell over his eyes with the movement. It was her distant cousin, the one who had been away at Harvard for the year. Last time she had seen Stephen Van Rensselaer he was a beautiful, slight youth. What a difference a year could make in a boy—he was still slender, still with a peachy hue on that smooth, heart-shaped face. But he obviously shaved now and must have grown two inches taller. As Stephen straightened, pulled himself away from the doorjamb, and strode toward her, Peggy felt herself blush. He had become rather devastatingly handsome—if she cared about that kind of thing.

  “Miss Peggy,” he said, and bowed, his voice far deeper than before. “I am glad to see you have recovered your strength since last we met.”

  “Master Stephen.” She curtsied. Peggy knew he meant well to ask after her health. After all, she’d almost fainted in front of him, thinking Fleury had come to visit given Moses Harris’s ruse that he was a suitor of hers. But she hardly wished to remember or discuss that sudden mixture of gut-wrenching hope and despairing disappointment. She shifted the subject. “How is Harvard?”

  “Wonderful,” answered Stephen, just as the musicians began to play. They both turned to watch the dance floor. “Ah, His Excellency has chosen your mama as his partner for the first minuet.”

  Standing on tiptoe, Peggy could see over people’s shoulders to Catharine, who was absolutely radiant at the honor being done her by General Washington. Peggy caught her breath—she had forgotten how beautiful her mother could look. Catharine wore a crisp cream satin gown, brocaded with delicate vertical trellises of rosebuds that cleverly thinned her slightly round figure. Beautifully scalloped, pinked ruffles cascaded from her elbows as Catharine held out her arms in a floaty arc, making her a pretty echo of the young, happy, elegant woman captured in her portrait as a bride.