by Diana Rubino
After three days with no prospects, I held up my purse and shook it. The few remaining coins clinked. After tomorrow, I would be out on the street.
Oh, if only I'd banked some of that money James had given me instead of frittering it away on flub-dubs. I'd followed every step of Alexander's creation of the First Bank as it appeared in the newspapers, and so admired his fiscal genius. Now, instead of being one of his bank's first depositors, I wandered the streets destitute.
That eve, I lay on the thin mattress in the stuffy garret room and closed my eyes. A vision of Alexander entered my mind and I grew warm inside. I let my mind journey to the first night we met: January of 1786, at Aaron Burr's home. Aaron had asked me to bring my violin and perform. I willingly accepted.
The group gathered round me in a whoosh of rustling taffeta and fluttering fans.
I looked up to see Alexander, his gaze fixed on mine. As he smiled, a hot surge ripped through me. The chandelier candles heated my skin like the blazing sun. Returning his smile, I forced my eyes off him, nestled the violin under my chin and gave a lively performance of Mozart's Turkish March. I finished to a burst of applause and cheering.
Still aware of him watching me, his eyes slipping to my décolletage, I dipped a curtsey. “You play as exquisitely as you look.” He caressed my violin like a beloved pet. Then he clasped his fingers round mine, raised my hand to his lips and kissed it. “I want to hear more from your violin, but much more from you, Maria.”
His nearness enthralled me. I knew he was a flirter. But I was a married lady. And he a married man. With wads of children.
The reverie over, I opened my eyes to my shabby surroundings and oppressive confinement.
Knowing what I must do, I pushed myself off the cot, dashed down the stairs, out the door and to the nearest stationer's. I purchased a paquet of elegant writing paper, with barely enough coin left for breakfast.
Returning to the house, I borrowed a pen and ink from Mrs. Norris's desk and composed the most important, and I admit, pitiful letter I'd ever written.
Desperate, hungry and bereft of dignity, I begged Alexander Hamilton to help me.
I put nib to paper and with great care, penned my woeful entreaty to the Treasury Secretary. My trembling hand spattered drops of ink across the page. So he would not regard me a common beggar, I wrote: I am the sister of Colonel Lewis DuBois, who led the Fifth New York Regiment during the Revolution. He is now brigadier general of the Dutchess County militia. My sister Susannah is married to distinguished attorney Gilbert Livingston of the powerful New York Livingston family. My husband James has treated me cruelly, leaving me for another woman. alone and destitute, I embellished. I need immediate assistance and appeal to your sense of generosity to come to my aid.
I recited the missive aloud, blotted the paper and addressed the envelope to Secretary A. Hamilton as personal and confidential. I had the post deliver it to his residence, a walk I could have made myself, but heaven forbid he should espy me on his doorstep.
Next morn, I gave the last of my coin to a scrap of a boy in rags on the street. With no money for breakfast, I found a stale hunk of bread on the kitchen cutting board and choked it down with ale from a cracked jug.
By suppertime my stomach clenched from hunger. I offered to do Mrs. Norris's laundry and beat her rugs in exchange for a meal.
I spent the following morn pressed against the window, waiting for the post carriage to rumble down the street. My empty stomach growled. Aside from some stale coffee and a hard roll, not a morsel remained in the kitchen. “Come on, postman, come on!” I twisted my hankie, tapped my feet on the threadbare rug. Finally, the old carriage ambled up to the house. I burst out the door, swiping the post from the old man's hands before he even alighted. “Ta, my good man!”
I strode back inside, stumbling on cobblestones, rifling through the letters with trembling fingers. Naught from Mr. Hamilton. I let out a heavy sigh. Did he even get the letter?
Pacing the corridor, I shook my head in despair, my heart heavy, for I'd prayed he would at least reply, or offer to visit with a small loan. Even a rejection would have been welcome, rather than this waiting, wondering, longing.
Frightful images haunted me—begging in the streets, weak with hunger, crouching all night in alleys. Placing my hand over my racing heart, I knew what I must do. I needed go see him in person. I pictured the ladies about town staring me down, murmuring “harlot.” But my hunger and desperation drove me. I now believed Alexander Hamilton was part of my destiny.
I rehearsed my speech before the hall looking glass. “We met at Colonel Burr's soirée, do you remember that?” I shook my head. “My husband James has treated me cruelly—he deserted me and I am destitute—” No, too self-pitying. “I am alone and appeal to your sense of generosity…”
I memorized my plea.
By eight that eve, a breeze whispered in the twilight. I washed in the courtyard's communal basin with water from the public pump and a sliver of lye soap from the kitchen. I washed my hair and pinned it up with no powder, for I hadn't any. Having no shawl, I draped a fringed throw from a chair about my shoulders. Shoring up my courage, I began the walk to his house, too nervous to take a coach even if I had the coin. Walking helped calm my pounding heart and my rapid breaths. Leaving the stench of the open sewers and grunting hogs behind, I entered an elegant neighborhood. I passed stately brick Georgian-style houses. Rows of buttonwood, willow and poplar trees lined the pebble-paved streets. Yet I trembled as I walked.
Everyone round town knew that Mrs. Hamilton and the children summered in Albany. But as the Mrs. carried her sixth child, could Alexander spare any funds for a poor woman he barely knew?
A Paul Revere lantern glowed in an upstairs window of 79 South Street. The downstairs windows gaped open, lace curtains fluttering in the breeze. I knocked on the door. Footsteps grew louder. I held my breath. The latch rattled. The door opened. Knowing I'd see Alexander's violet eyes brought a dreamy smile to my lips. I squared my shoulders and raised my hand to be kissed. The door opened—and revealed what I'd never expected. I stumbled back, stunned.
“Yes? Oh, good evening, Mrs. Reynolds.”
There stood Mrs. Elizabeth Hamilton.
Chapter Four
“M—M—Mrs. Hamilton—” I'd been so expecting Alexander, I stammered out her name, as nothing else could come out. I gulped.
She rescued me—in a way. “Please, do come in.” She held the door open. I entered, my tongue so dry, it stuck to the roof of my mouth. “What can we do for you?”
“I—that is, my husband—” My eyes darted round the entry hall and up the stairs. The house sat in dark silence, the only light from a candle she held in a brass holder. I wondered if she'd been asleep. Shadows of fatigue surrounded her eyes. Her belly protruded. “I hope I didn't disturb your rest. My husband wanted me to speak with Mr. Hamilton about—about investing in some land out west—he's busy, so he sent me. But if now is a bad time—” Looking into the eyes of Alexander's pregnant wife, I no longer considered this a rational idea. But at least I'd conjured up a halfway believable excuse. Relief flooded me.
“Mr. Hamilton is not at home at the moment but should return shortly. Would you care to wait?” She glanced at the doorway to her left.
“Uh—no,” I stammered, my legs so weak, I nearly collapsed. No, I couldn't face him now. Not with his wife at home! “No, I can have James call—would tomorrow be convenient?” I backed out, my hands groping behind me for the door. I couldn't get out of there fast enough.
“Certainly. I shall tell my husband to expect yours.” She smiled so sincerely, it crushed me.
Out of curiosity more than an attempt to be cordial, I asked, “Do you plan to visit your family in Albany this summer?” After all, the papers said she was already there.
“I was, but returned for a short visit. I could not bear being apart from my husband. Something told me to come home to him.” She tapped the side of her head. “Tis a woman feelin
g. Do you know, in your heart, when your husband needs you?”
No, mine did not. A pang rippled through me. But I nodded.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hamilton. I'm sorry I disturbed you.” I pulled the door closed—and ran smack into Alexander.
Stunned, I leapt back, my hands fluttering.
Mrs. Hamilton said, “Mrs. Reynolds came to see you, Alex, on behalf of James.”
He nodded. “Ah, yes, James. How can I be of assistance, Mrs. Reynolds?” His calm tone soothed me. I caught my breath—almost. The sight of him melted me.
“Well, he—” If I was tongue-tied with his wife, I was dumbfounded now. “James asked me—”
Sensing my discomfort, he clasped my elbow and led me back into the hall. “Betsey, give me a minute with Mrs. Reynolds.”
“As you wish, sir,” she obeyed, bobbed a curtsey, turned and vanished. I was surprised she didn't back out.
Alexander and I stood almost eye to eye, which unnerved me even more. His hand still held my elbow as he led me into a parlour. He gestured to an overstuffed sofa as he pushed up his sleeves. “Saints alive, I am hot.” He pushed a side window open.
You're hot, all right! I bit back the words as I sweltered, gazing at him.
He sat across from me in a wing chair, our knees nearly touching. “How may I help you?”
I tried to remember what I'd written in my letters, but only fragments came to me. Knowing I'd be out of here within minutes, I tried to regain calmness. I recited word for word, “Mr. Hamilton, I am from Dutchess County. My husband James treated me cruelly and left me for another woman. I am in so dire a condition that I have not the means to return to New York. I appeal to your humanity. Will you, sir, assist a woman in despair?”
He nodded even before I finished speaking. “Your situation is interesting, Mrs. Reynolds. I am disposed to help you. Unfortunately, tis not convenient at the moment to provide any assistance. I have no money readily available. Could I send some money to you at your place of residence?”
Drowning in relief, I released a deep breath. Thank God this mortifying episode was nearly over. “Why, of course. I'd be ever so grateful.”
Then, with a smile, he said what I'd been dreading and longing for at the same time. “I shall deliver a bank note personally later this evening.”
I stood too quickly. Without a decent meal in days, I lost my footing and grabbed the sofa. My head spun. He clutched my arms, steadying me. “Shall I fetch you a glass of water? Or wine?”
“No, I am fine, I'll be on my way—” I escaped his grasp and darted for the door. “Thank you again, sir, and I'll expect your visit. I currently reside at Number Two Drinker's Alley, between Second and Front Streets.” I omitted any reference to its proximity to the Three Jolly Irishmen. I was sure even he knew it sat dangerously close to Hell Town. “Good evening, sir.”
I gulped sweet air and fled down the street as if chased. He's coming to visit later tonight! Pondering James's nefarious scheme, I shuddered. Flirtatious as Alexander was, I now understood the meaning of his overture that first night we'd met. Offering him my body made me quail with shame, yet enraptured me. Now, the enraptured part blossomed.
What will happen tonight? I wondered. I harbored a strong premonition that tonight my life would change forever.
Chapter Five
Eliza
“You will laugh at me for consulting you about such a trifle; but I want to know, whether you would prefer my receiving the nuptial benediction in my uniform or in a different habit. It will be just as you please; so consult your whim and what you think most consistent with propriety. If you mean to follow our plan of being secretly married, the scruple ought to appear entirely your own and you should begin to give hints of it.” – Love Letter from Alexander Hamilton
to Elizabeth Schuyler
Alex dismissed me. I obeyed and went to bed. Poor Mrs. Reynolds. Her husband's shady dealings plunged them into financial ruin. But I hoped Alex would have the sense to keep his money in his britches and not hand it over to that cad. Alex wasn't one to gamble on land speculation anyway. His Scottish background prevailed when it came to finances, as frugal with our funds as with the country's.
“The debt of the United States is the price of liberty,” he told everyone who visited. No matter where the topic started, it always ended with the debt. “A centralized government needs to be created,” he told me time and again, determined to be the one to create it.
But now I agonized for Alex, working so hard, too tired to relish our short visit. My plans to surprise him in bed vanished when I'd entered the house late Wednesday last and found him laboring over a stack of papers in his study. He'd turned to look at me and gaped as if I were a ghost. When I assured him it was I, alive and well, he swept me into his arms and carried me to our bed. But he didn't join me. “I'm buried under work,” he explained away as he returned to his study.
He paid me fleeting visits to our bed during the course of the day, and at night fell into his place next to me, snoring within the minute. Hardly a romantic interlude!
A few eves later, the stairs creaked as he approached. He opened the bedroom door and peeked in. “Betsey?”
“Yes?” I struggled to sit up, hoping we could have perhaps an hour together, to kiss and hug, if naught else. “Come to me, let us spend the rest of the evening together.”
“I cannot, I must go to Mrs. Reynolds. She needs my assistance.” He turned to leave.
My jaw dropped. “Wait! At this hour? Can she not survive till morning?”
“She's desperate. James left her for another woman. I need to deliver her a bank note to hold her over.” He held up the note as if to prove the visit wasn't frivolous.
I fell back down onto the pillow. “She'd told me it was to discuss a land deal of her husband's, but it seems she was too embarrassed to tell me the real reason. Of course, go to her. I shall be fine. I have Winifred if I need anything.”
“I shan't be long.” He quit the room so fast, I got not another glimpse of him. I lay on my side, cradling my belly, my ears perked for his return. But I fell asleep, did not wake till morn, and he was already gone.
Dr. Severus Black
Late that night as the city slumbered, I crouched in the shadows, stock still, watching the house, peering into the lighted windows—why, I couldn't rightly say. Hidden behind the sturdy trunk of a well established oak tree that stood sentinel beside the street, I remembered the previous eve. Alexander Hamilton passed no more then two arm's lengths away as he hurried down the street. I'd seen another lady enter the house not long before that, tarrying a short time before departing again. Hmm—intrigue, mayhap? Was the upstanding Treasury Secretary involved in some tryst with the lady? She'd looked vaguely familiar, but in the darkness of night, I couldn't make out her features in order to identify her. Had she come to confront her lover and been sent packing by Mrs. Hamilton, Alex scurrying away the next eve to make amends to his scorned harlot?
This was conjecture on my part, naught more. And why was my mind so beset by thoughts of the fair Elizabeth? Twas not romantic love that brought me to this point, for I'd never loved that way and never would. The emotion was as foreign to me as pity.
Craving fresh air and an impromptu promenade, I ended up here without thought as to route or destination. I felt some duty of care towards the lady of the house. Truly, she'd shown me naught but kindness on the occasions I'd called on her.
Among this jumble of thoughts, of one fact I was certain: the thought of Alexander involved with the familiar but unknown lady aroused a stirring I hadn't felt since my days in Paris—or London before that. I stood, brushed off my trousers, and took a step away from my shadowy lair to trail Alexander. Then I rejected the idea. I could stalk him anytime. He'd soon sneak out to another tryst, surely.
I headed in the other direction and prowled one lonely street after another. I found it disappointing how desolate these city streets became after dark, unlike the throbbing, darkly alluring pa
ths and alleyways of London and Paris.
As I despaired that my needs would remain by force unfulfilled, the unmistakable sound of a female in distress reached out to me in the darkness. A small passageway lay some ten yards or so ahead. I needed no compass to discern it was from there that the sobs emanated. Sure enough, as I turned into the dark alley I spotted her. She looked young, no more than twenty at most. Her attire gave me a clue to her status. The white blouse and long black skirts—she was a servant, mayhap a maid in one of the area's grand houses.
She crouched on the bare cobbles that made up the surface of the alley, where merchants and deliverymen daily traversed.
I ambled up to her. “And what besets you so, child?” My most accommodating, gentle inflection floated through the air.
She jumped, startled, and looked up at me. “Oh, sir, I'm sorry. I had no thoughts of disturbing anyone.”
“What disturbs me is seeing you in such a state.” I crept closer. “Surely things are not so unbearable that you cannot tell me what troubles you so, that you sit here in the dark so late at night. At least tell me your name.” I trained my eyes on her, confident they possessed their usual hypnotic properties.
“Rose, sir.” Her fear dissolved and she smiled, meeting my gaze.
I strained to hear her quiet voice. “Ah, a pretty name, Rose. Now, tell me what troubles you. You can trust me. I'm a doctor, I can help you. My name is Dr. Black. There, now you know who I am. Come, let me help you up.” I bent over and reached for her hand.
Rose clasped my splayed fingers and stood, those innocent trusting eyes fixed on mine.
“Now, what is wrong?” I inched closer. Our toes nearly touched.
Rose took a deep breath and cleared her throat. “I suppose I can trust you. The son of my employer, sir, he took advantage of me in my room one night and now I fear I am with child.”
The sobs erupted again. I reached into my pocket and removed a kerchief, pressing it into her palm. She dabbed at her tears.